


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: Tales From the Tower [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Porn With Plot, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <i>I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>in secret, between the shadow and the soul.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>-- Pablo Neruda Sonnet XVII</i>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <i>Clint shrugged. Talking about things wasn't always his strong suit. "You have skills I don't. You see angles I don't. We work better together than I think either of us do alone. If you would rather work alone, obviously you could."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The idea of working alone, or worse, with someone else, set off little sparks of panic in Nat's chest. She contained the reaction with concerted effort and kept her voice level when she replied, "I've found working with a partner makes what I do far easier. There were too many variables to track when I worked alone. As long as you're content with the arrangement I have no objection." She looked at him. "If it isn't broke, don't fix it, yes?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Our new Clintasha tale, spanning the course of their relationship, up through the events of Winter Soldier. This fic is told non-linearly, so be sure to note location/date stamps when we note them.
> 
> This story is set in the same world as Nyx's solo Bucky/OFC fic _My Scars, They are Your Scars_. You don't have to read that for this to make sense, they are stand alone. However, if you _have_ read it you might notice a familiar face or two.
> 
> Will post of Fridays for the foreseeable future.

_New York, 2012_  
 _The Battle of New York_

This wasn’t the first time Clint Barton had landed somewhere painfully. Heights came with falls. But this was the first time he seriously wondered if he’d broken his back. And seriously wished he carried a quiver made of some material not so particularly painful to lay on.

It took him a couple of minutes to be sure he could both breathe and feel his legs before he rolled over to sit up. There was glass everywhere, and his arms looked like he’d wrestled a porcupine. The fall had knocked his earpiece out and it took him a moment to find it in the debris. On it, they were talking about an inbound nuke that had been fired at Manhattan.

This was it, then. This was what he had done. He supposed it was only fitting he die in it. Today’s death toll was already far beyond what he could stomach. At least he wouldn’t have to live with it being seven million. 

He went to the shattered window he’d come in through. He looked down at the wrecked street below. Stark and the missile flew down the street right past him, and up into the portal.

There would be no mushroom cloud then. No massacre. No blinding annihilation. No absolution, either. The Chitauri began falling off buildings, collapsing in the streets below. Whatever Stark had done, it had flipped them off like a switch. For a moment, he stared, stunned. Then Natasha closed the portal, and it was over. They had won.

For a long time he stood there, peering over the ledge. He’d never been bothered by heights—usually he rather liked them. The solitude, the distance. But now the long drop seemed to open up before him, wanting to pull him down. Daring him to just step off.

The simplicity of it tempted him. No guilt. No explanations. No having face the people he worked with. No cell or psych ward or whatever awaited him back at SHIELD. In the darker places his mind had wandered today—when it had a moment—was the thought that there would be a public trial for terrorism and a syringe of potassium chloride someday soon. SHIELD could hide his involvement, or they could throw him under the bus. Whatever they did would be in their own best interest. 

Maybe dying in the battle would make it that much neater. 

Of course, the battle was over, so all that was left was to jump like a coward. Nobody would believe he fell. He was fucking Hawkeye.

“Barton, you still alive?” Nat’s voice in his ear snapped him out of his strange vertigo trance. She sounded half worried and half annoyed. Probably annoyed she was experiencing unwanted emotions like worry.

“Alive. Nothing broken.” Not true. Probably at least two ribs. But that was for later. “Out of arrows and about forty floors up some random building across the street.” He squinted up at the tower, and watched her come to the very edge. She waved when she saw him. “You?”

“Closed the portal. Saved the world. Y’know. Loki’s a couple floors down from me embedded in Stark’s floor. You wanna come over here so we can kill him?”

He could already hear Thor and Steve protesting killing him over the comm line. Clint didn’t care, because she’d just reminded him there had been good done today. There were emotions other than guilt to feel. And the siren song of the abyss had nothing on hers.

*

_Monte Carlo, 2007_

Spying was often very unglamorous work. Unlike the movies, there was more sitting around in gross motel rooms than there was visiting a high-end casino and drinking martinis. This would be her very first visit to Monaco, actually. She didn't know anything about the mission—usually she was briefed in the air, but they were on a commercial flight this time. Barton was across the aisle from her, silent and still in that way of his. He dressed mostly in black, and she'd teased him about not owning any other colors. Today's t-shirt was gray. It wasn't much of a color variance, but she got the sense he'd worn it for her.

Covers usually started in the air, so she hadn't made any attempt to talk to him. She presumed he had some idea what they were doing here. She doubted SHIELD was sending them on an all expenses paid vacation.

At her old job the secrecy probably would have meant she was the target. She was almost convinced that SHIELD didn't play that way. Didn't mean she wouldn't be making an exit strategy when they landed.

The plane touched down right on time, and as Barton stood up to get his bag out of the overhead, he dropped a napkin on her lap. She opened it and read, in his terrible chicken scratch, _Baggage Claim. Driver for "McCarthy"._ When she looked up he'd vanished up the aisle.

She gathered up her little rolly bag and strode off the plane, heels clicking on the linoleum floor of the airport. Everything about her said 'woman on a business trip.' From her spike heels to the pearls in her ears. She scanned her surroundings with practiced indifference, spotting exit paths and potential weapons the entire way to baggage claim.

There was someone in a driver's uniform holding a McCarthy sign and she went up to him without hesitation. "That's me." He took her bags, and led her to a limo on the curb. He put the bag in the trunk, and opened the back door for her. Inside, sitting across from her, was Barton.

The driver closed the door behind her and she settled herself as he walked around to his door. "This is more cloak and dagger than usual," she commented.

"The target is very well protected and paranoid. He'll research your arrival." He handed a folder over to her. "I made a stink, and they promised next time something like this happened, I could have a mission briefing before we left. But they literally gave me this on my way out the door."

She flipped the folder open and was greeted with a picture of a man she'd seen on CNN a couple weeks ago. Oil magnate from Saudi Arabia. Supposedly involved in all manner of awful things and virtually untouchable by most governments. "He's a gambler," she murmured, scanning the report. That was useful. Weaknesses were always useful.

"Hence. . . Monte Carlo. They were planning a black ops strike force, and then one of the agents that had been tailing him took note that he seemed to have a particular fondness for redheads."

Of course he did. Her hair was like catnip to men. Especially when they found out it was red all over. She shook her head a little, finishing the file. "I get to dress pretty," was all she said, closing the file with a little snap.

"That you do. There's a dress waiting for you in your hotel room."

That would be interesting. She only hoped a woman had picked it out. Men tended to forget she actually had to work wearing these things. "What will you be doing?" Barton was an archer, a sniper. He was generally sitting up somewhere high, ready to send an arrow over her shoulder if things went badly. Not a lot of sniper perches in a casino.

A smile spread across his face. "Playing poker." 

He was handsome when he smiled, in an oddly little boy way. Maybe that was why he didn't do it very often. She imagined he had a rather impressive poker face. "I prefer blackjack," she offered.

"I bet you count cards," he replied.

"Of course," she said. There were people who didn't?

"You'd probably be very good at poker. Read people, manipulate them. A lot of high rollers underestimate women, especially pretty ones."

"I don't know how to play." She fiddled idly with the pearl strands at her neck. "Maybe after the mission is over we'll have time to practice." With anyone else it probably would have sounded like an opening. Barton was her partner, though, and it had become clear fairly early on that he wasn't going to try anything with her.

"I've been told I'm an abysmal teacher, at just about everything, but I'll try."

She glanced over at him. "I'm a quick study."

"I did notice that." The car pulled up in front of a hotel. A very, very nice hotel. "Go. I'll be in in a bit."

The driver unloaded her bag and she went into the hotel. She checked in under the name Bridget McCarthy. She made it to her room uneventfully and stretched out on the large, very luxurious bed with a sigh. Why couldn't all of their jobs be like this?

The bathroom had a cavernous tub she made a note to use before they left. There was a garment bag hanging in the closet, as promised. She rallied enough to get up and unzip it, revealing a blood red evening gown with an open back and high slit in the leg. She could work with that. And she'd stand out in a room full of little black dresses. She gave a little nod of approval before zipping it back up.

There was a knock on the door, the pattern to it telling her it was Barton. Unexpected door knocks raised her hackles, and he'd learned pretty quickly to warn her—without being so obvious as to sound like some childish 'secret club' knock. 

She tugged her blouse down a bit and went to open it. She really hoped she got a chance to use the tub before going downstairs. He came in and wandered the room for a moment before saying anything. She'd never seen him walk into a room he didn't case. She did it, too, but she did it from one spot. He often felt the need to touch things.

His fingers skimmed the garment bag, but didn't open it. He stood at the balcony door a moment, checking the sight-lines and she moved to start unpacking her bag.

"Your room is _way_ better than mine. I need to have a talk with travel."

"When there is a non zero chance you'll be bringing a Saudi oil magnate to your room to kill him, then you can have the fancy room."

"What? Oh—I don't care about that." He waved his hand dismissively at the bed. "I can sleep in stairwells. But your sight-lines are great. I could shoot blocks in either direction. I could hit someone on the beach from here."

Almost two years she'd been working with him and he still surprised her occasionally. "Well. If it comes to that you can borrow my balcony."

"Travel never appreciates my requests for a good perch," he grumbled.

She'd done as much as she could with her luggage and stretched out on the bed again. "Not everyone knows one when they see it."

He turned to look at her. She had mostly learned to read his face in the last two years, but sometimes she still couldn't. It was rare that it took her more than a few hours to figure someone out, and read them like a book. So he presented a rare and often fascinating challenge. "I've been told by many people my viewpoint is unique."

"Most people like to look at things up close. Study them intimately. You see better from a distance. It's not how I was trained, but I've seen you in action. It works for you. Who is anyone else to judge?"

He shrugged. "People judge all sorts of things they don't understand. It's why I always worked alone."

She knew why she'd worked with him in the beginning. Fury had thought she would turn - or run - and had made her Barton's problem, since he'd been the one to bring her in. She had thought in two years she would have earned a little trust, but still, she was partnered with him consistently. "I'm sure someday they'll decide I don't need a baby sitter anymore," she offered.

He ducked his head. "Well. Now I just request you."

Her brows reached for her hairline. "You do?" That was completely unexpected.

He shrugged. Talking about things wasn't always his strong suit. "You have skills I don't. You see angles I don't. We work better together than I think either of us do alone."

She couldn't argue with that. "I had assumed it was still being forced on you by Fury." She paused, weighing her next words carefully. "Thank you."

That got her a nod. "If you would rather work alone, obviously you could. And I'm sorry no one told you that. It was probably my fault, but I. . . don't always read the whole memo."

The idea of working alone, or worse, with someone else, set off little sparks of panic in her chest. She contained the reaction with concerted effort and kept her voice level when she replied, "I've found working with a partner makes what I do far easier. There were too many variables to track when I worked alone. As long as you're content with the arrangement I have no objection." She looked at him. "If it isn't broke, don't fix it, yes?"

His smile was very warm, and it made her feel warm—and maybe a little unsettled. He did that to her sometimes. Making something neglected and ignored inside her flicker, just a little. "Yeah."

She hoped she didn't sound nervous when she cleared her throat and glanced away to look at the time. "I need to dress to go down to the casino. I'll see you down there?"

"Me too. I'll see you there at nine." He inclined his head, and then he left.


	2. Chapter 2

_Still Monte Carlo, 2007_

Nat was too pressed for time to indulge in the tub. Hopefully if everything went well she could have a soak later. A quick shower, then she dried and curled her hair, before slipping into the red dress and matching heels. Subtle make up, a bracelet studded with diamonds and a matching necklace. Her perfume was light but haunting, musk and spices. She gave herself a careful once over in the mirror, looked at the picture of her target one last time and made her way down to the casino at ten minutes before nine.

She didn't see Barton in the lobby, so she scanned for him in the somewhat crowded casino. He didn't seem to be anywhere, but he was also exceptionally good at blending into the background, so she didn't worry. She had a mark to locate.

The Saudi was at the craps table, making a scene and betting big. Nat got a drink and found a spot to linger and study him. Two bodyguards flanked him and another was on the wall nearby, scoping the exits and entrances. There were women at the craps table giving him attention, but he hadn't singled one out yet. Good, she still had time to integrate herself.

She felt someone behind her the moment before she heard the familiar voice. "I hate gin, but I have the strongest urge to order a martini."

Brow furrowed, the turned to ask Barton what the hell he was talking about. Then she stopped short, feeling a bit as if someone had punched her in the gut.

He was in a tuxedo. A proper one. Cummerbund and everything. In two years the nicest thing she'd seen him wear was a clean T-shirt and previously unworn jeans. He looked fine in his civvies. And deadly in his tactical wear. Even a nun would have had to admire the line of his biceps. Clint Barton in a tux was. . . something else entirely.

That little neglected flicker blazed to life in her belly, stronger and hotter than she'd ever felt it before.

He didn't seem to notice, because he'd turned and ordered a scotch from the bar. The jacket cut perfectly over his shoulders. It was either impeccably tailored, or bespoke. 

She absolutely shouldn't drag him upstairs to her room with its very large bed - and oh, God, the _tub_ \- and rip said tux off of him. There was a reason she should not do that. She was going to remember it any minute now. Had he always had that nice of an ass?

Oh, shit, the mark.

She turned back to the craps table to find the Saudi smiling at some girl in black with chestnut hair.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Barton turned, drinking his damn scotch. "You okay?"

"Yes," she said sharply. If she didn't look directly at him the effect wasn't as bad. "I may have missed my window. I'll look at you later. See you later." She shook her head and downed some of her own drink, letting it burn down her throat as she made her way over to the craps table. What the hell was _wrong_ with her?

In her tiny purse, her burner phone beeped. Only one person had the number. She didn't glance back at him, but she did look at the text. _Please. She's barely an 8._

She couldn't help the little smile it brought to her face. Or replying. _And what am I, then?_

_The only 11 I've ever seen._

Oh, she really wanted to rip his clothes off.

Fortunately, Mr. Unethical Oil Magnate seemed to agree with him. One sultry look and half smile and she was at his side, blowing on his dice and letting his hand wander all over her ass. His bodyguards didn't gave her a second glance.

No one ever suspected someone like her. People saw what they wanted to, and she crafted her dumb bimbo look to perfection, for men who liked that. Her mark certainly did. But she was fairly certain that whatever it was that caused Barton to rank her off the scale, it wasn't this Jessica Rabbit dress. 

She'd planned half a dozen ways to take him out, depending on any number of factors. The easiest would be to take him upstairs, but he was making a bit of a scene and a lot of people had seen her with him. Killing him in his room would be the easiest, but might be complicated in the aftermath. They'd have to unass the casino before he was found. No tub. Not sorting out the sudden distraction that was Barton in a tuxedo.

So she went with plan C and started getting snuggly with him, waving the waitress over to keep refilling his drinks. And on every third drink she slipped one of the diamonds off her bracelet into the glass. It looked like ice, but was coated with a slow acting poison that resembled natural causes to all but the most intense toxicology. She didn't like poison as a general rule, though she'd heard once that it was the most likely way for an average woman to kill.

By midnight he was reeling on his feet and slurring as if he was drunk. His guards helped him to the elevator, shooing her away when she tried to follow. She kept the pout on her face until the elevator doors closed, then relaxed. She tugged her now denuded bracelet off and tucked it in her purse.

Her phone beeped again. _Cashing out my chips. Likely morning before confirmation?_

_Affirmative. They'll think he's drunk and sleeping it off._ And then, because she appeared to be going slightly mad, she added, _Did you win anything?_

_Enough to be worth the effort._ Nat had no idea what that meant, in actual cash, but it was a very him answer. 

_So you'll be buying me breakfast, then._ Christ, she was flirting with him now. She should get on the elevator, not keep waiting for him. There was a tub upstairs. The perfect place to scratch the itch she was feeling. Without embarrassing herself in front of her partner.

Instead she waited, until he came sauntering out of the casino and across the lobby in his tux. As he walked, he reached up and unknotted the bow-tie and left it to dangle.

This had to be what men felt like when they saw her. This slightly mad desire to do whatever it took to get the object of their lust into their bed. It explained so many things. She wished she had something to do with her hands to ensure she wouldn't grab those dangling tie ends and drag his mouth down to hers.

 She settled for hitting the elevator button forcefully.

Of course, he reached her before it opened, which meant that had to share it. He was unaware of her torment, apparently, and so was all smiles. "You did good," he said when the doors closed.

"Thank you," she said, hoping she didn't sound as stiff to him as she did to herself. "It seemed the best option."

She could _feel_ his eyes on her. "Did he rattle you?" he asked quietly.

_No, but I'm having a very hard time standing this close to you and not pressing you against the wall and doing a thorough inspection of every bit of you._ He even smelled better than usually, though it was possible that was just in her head.

"No. I'm fine. The bodyguards meant I had to change plans a bit." She risked a brief look at him. Yes, still hot. "You know I like to plan."

He shrugged the jacket off and draped it over one arm. He reached over and actually touched her. It was literally just her arm and a couple of his knuckles, but she almost came out of her skin. "You did good," he repeated.

She had to swallow hard and stare at the wall a moment before she could manage a quiet, "Thank you."

He dropped his hand slowly. "Sorry," he said, also quietly. She often didn't like to be touched, which he knew. Sometimes he pushed her, and she knew why. It was probably good for her. But he was aware of where her real boundaries were. The elevator pinged on what was apparently both their floor.

It took a great deal of effort, but she managed to walk out at a normal, almost leisurely pace. She made a point to note which door he went to as she headed down the hall to her room. "Good night, Clint," she said in an almost normal tone.

"Good night, Natasha," he echoed back. Like everyone at SHEILD, they used last names. The sudden shift had been mostly accidental—if you were going to think about a man naked, you should use his first name. But he'd noticed, and replied in kind.

She let herself in her room and strode to the bathroom to throw cold water on her face. Then she wet a washcloth and scrubbed the makeup off her eyes and mouth. She met her gaze in the mirror and told herself she was crazy in every language she could think of. That lovely tub was behind her. She should strip, start the water and relax there. Touch herself and pretend it was his callused hand on her breasts, her sex. A good climax would chase away the ache she was feeling and she could move on.

Except. . . he was right down the hall. Likely still in that tux. And if she wanted his callused fingers on her why couldn't she have the real thing? Her youth had been spent following orders. Wanting _nothing_. Fucking the men she was pointed at because it was what she was told. Because if she didn't then it would be the Red Room and the pain and it would all begin again. That was supposed to be over now.

He touched her like she was a person. Like she could make a choice. And she shied away from him because it was all she knew. Pain and grief. Why shouldn't she touch him back? Just this once. Be something other than the Widow in bed.

*

Clint glared at the dismal and unhelpful view off his balcony. He could see exactly jack shit. He thought about going down the hall and knocking on Natasha's door, so he could lurk on her balcony instead. But there had been something off about her tonight. Something he couldn't read. As if something had touched a nerve, and she was raw. He saw flashes of that sometimes, when an op hit a little too close for her. He needed to give her her space.

He was actually starting to debate going back down to the casino to win more money when the quiet knock came from his door. A pattern. Natasha. He closed the balcony door and crossed the room to pull open the door.

She'd wiped her make up off, but she was still in the dress, hair perfectly curled around her face. Based on her height she'd taken her shoes off, dress pooling at her feet a little bit. She looked him over, a simple up and down, but there was something oddly. . . feline in it. It wasn't a look she'd ever aimed at him before.

Her gaze came back to his face and she cleared her throat. "I wanted to offer-" He saw her stop herself, reassess, then start again. "I wanted to see if you needed any help getting out of your tux."

He stared at her, a riot of inappropriate thoughts he'd ruthlessly suppressed for, well, years now suddenly all bubbling to the surface. It wasn't really an offer any sane man would refuse. It felt fairly miserable that he was probably going to have to.

Wordlessly, he stepped back, letting her come in. Not as acceptance, but because they needed to talk. He didn't know how to phrase what he wanted to ask, a question he didn't think he'd like the answer to. Whatever it was, it would surely test the boundaries of his self control.

There were probably elegant, kind ways to say it. But all that came out was, "Why?"

She had folded her hands in front of her, watching him cautiously. The pose, plus the too-long dress made him think of a little girl waiting to get scolded. Not a great place for his head to be. 

"You looked very good in your tux," she said. "And I want you."

He blew out a breath. His libido was screaming at him to just say yes. It had been. . . kind of embarrassingly long. He was busy. And now here she was, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. But this could get very messy. "The feeling is very mutual," he said quietly. "But we shouldn't."

Her mouth twisted and pursed a little, the way it did when she was having a conversation she didn’t like. "I know," she said finally. "I told myself that. But I haven't. . ." She paused again, reassessed, then continued, haltingly, "I've never wanted a man. As me. Not the Widow." She looked at his face again. "I'm not being her right now." It was obviously said as a reassurance to both of them. Which made the next sentence all the worse. "But I could, if that made it easier. . ."

"No," he said. "Natasha, no." He came closer, because he couldn't seem to help himself. He brushed her hair off her face and tucked it gently behind her ear. "I only want the real you."

Her hand tangled in the fabric of his shirt. She never touched him. Not voluntarily, not like that. "You're the only one who knows the real me," she said softly.

He stared at her hand, almost mesmerized by it. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." It was quiet, but firm. "There isn't an argument you could make I didn't make to myself back in my room. I know all the reasons why not and I came here anyway."

"Well," he said finally. "I am extremely poor at following rules anyway."

She smiled a little and he realized she was watching his mouth. Her fingers loosened and tightened on his shirt. "Is that a yes?"

He didn't answer, he just kissed her. She sucked in a breath and wrapped her arm around his neck, going up on tiptoe so that she was pressed against him. He pulled her close, crushing her against him. They might regret this in the morning, but he had every intention of enjoying it now. She opened her mouth and he felt her tongue slide against his. She tasted of the sweet, girly drink she'd nursed down in the casino and he wondered if she could taste smoky scotch on him.

She nipped lightly at his lower lip, then soothed it by sucking it between hers. He probably shouldn't be surprised she was a little rough. Her hands had begun pulling the studs one-by-one out of the front of his shirt. He should probably keep track of where she tossed them, since they weren't his, but it was pretty impossible to care. Locating the zipper at the back of her dress was a much better use of his dwindling brain power.

His shirt parted the same time he got the zipper down and they stepped back in unison. He peeled the dress shirt, then his undershirt, off as quickly as he ever had in his life. Nat gave a little wiggle and the dress slithered down her body. She wore no bra, the back had been too low for that, and her breasts seemed to be held up by some sort of tape. She had on stockings and garters, but no underwear. There was a short knife in her left garter, where the dress slit had been.

For a moment he sincerely couldn't move. If he was honest—and now was a great time to be honest—there had been many times he attempted to picture her naked. He'd seen her in all manner of outfit, and the catsuit she often wore left nothing to the imagination. But bare skin was still something else. He was staring, and he knew it was the sort of stare that made self conscious women attempt to cover themselves. But she wasn't one of those women, and was busy with an inspection of her own. She reached out and closed her hands around his wrists, and then moved them up his arms with excruciating slowness.

She stopped at his biceps and her thumb traced the line of a scar. A memento of a very close call followed by an even luckier shot. Her eyes flicked back to his face a moment, the pale green almost lost to dilated pupil. Then, very deliberately, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the scar. He sucked in a breath at the feel of her mouth on his skin. At the connection. He fought the urge to grab her, to take over. Instinct told him it was important to let her go at her pace. To let her explore without any pressure.

Her hands continued on, skimming over his shoulders, then flattening on his pecs. Her thumbs grazed, then circled his flat nipples. She looked up at him through her lashes, biting her lower lip. Her expression had a little bit of the Widow in it - she probably couldn't turn it off entirely, not like this - and it was daring him to imagine touching her the way she was touching him. Then she was looking at his body again, watching her pale fingers thump over the slight edges of his ribs and carefully map the contours of his abdomen.

He watched her undo the side tabs of the tuxedo pants. "Natasha?" he asked quietly.

She stopped immediately and looked up at him. "Yes?"

He let his eyes travel her for a moment. "Would you like me to touch you?"

" _Yes_ ," she said immediately. He didn't know why he felt compelled to ask her. Maybe because he expected most men just took. Maybe because it seemed he was the first man she'd actually chosen to sleep with. So he returned the slow exploration she'd done, mapping her skin with his fingertips, working his way slowly to her breasts. She arched into his hands as they moved, gentle little movements as if to keep his hands in contact with her as much as possible. 

His fingers found the edge of the tape under her breasts. She touched the back of his hand with light fingers. "Pull it," she told him. He ripped it off fast, like a bandaid, and winced at the red marks it left behind. Like she'd done with the scar, he bent to kiss the angry skin.

She stroked her hand through his hair until he looked up at her. She had an odd, almost sad smile on her face. "I don't know what I like," she said softly.

He smiled crookedly. "It's all right. Most people start that way."

The smile widened. "Your hands are rough. I like that."

That surprised him. The bow had given his hands some odd calluses. He'd had women complain. But he wasn't going to tell her that. Instead he cupped both breasts, and stroked his thumbs over her nipples, watching them pebble. "We'll experiment, and we'll figure it out."

He heard her breath catch as he touched her. She touched his hands again, then bent to kiss him, mouth soft, kiss almost sweet. He pulled her close this time, so their bodies pressed together. He lifted her a little, and she got the hint, wrapping her legs around him so he could carry her over to the bed. When he set her down her back arched, and she made a very sexy sound. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her throat, making a slow progression downward.

Her hands roamed him as he moved down her. He felt her nails when his mouth reached her breast and she made another one of those sexy noises. Her fingers buried in his hair, as if trying to hold him to her. Her breasts were truly perfect. They could entertain him all day. But he was fairly certain she might kill him at some point. He sucked one nipple with a sharp pull, and that got a cry out of her he wasn't sure was pleasure or pain.

He glanced up at her, moving away slightly. Her fingers tightened and she looked down the length of her body. "More," she ordered, in what was almost a growl.

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a grin, and moved to the other breast. He teased her until she squirmed, and then he continued his journey. Her stomach was flat, taunt. She had a faint scar on her ribcage and another just above the small thatch of red hair covering the juncture of her thighs. He lifted up his head to look at it. It was in the spot where c-section scars usually were. He traced his fingertips over it, and when he looked up at her she'd lifted her head to watch him, and her eyes were unreadable.

"It is old," she finally said. "And not from battle." She tilted her head, studying him. "I think you're the first to notice."

"I am particularly observant,” he said with a smile. "I imagine most are too busy being surprised by the hair."

Her look of exasperation was kind of adorable. "Yes. It's a little ridiculous." He kissed the scar, and she shivered. There was a story there, he could tell. But that was for later.

She shifted a little, leg moving, and the slide of silk on his skin brought him back to to the present. He ran a hand down her leg, the weave of her stocking caught on his calluses here and there. Deftly, he plucked the knife out of her garter, placing it on the night stand beside them. Gently he rolled each stocking down, and kissed back up the inside of each leg.

Her legs trembled against him, then he felt her still, the way she did when something had touched a nerve. "You don't. . are you-?"

He rested his cheek against her thigh and looked up at her. "Is that a no?"

She blew out a breath that sounded almost nervous, then bit her lower lip. "I don't think it's a no."

He sat back on his heels. "Please don't tell me no one has ever. . ."

Frowning a little, she pushed up on her elbows, abs rippling under her skin. "It's not generally about me. And I don't. . ." She rubbed her foot against his hip idly as she thought. "They think they're in charge, but they're not in charge, yeah? It would make me too vulnerable." Because for her sex was a tool. A weapon. You didn't hand your opponent the hilt of your sword halfway through the battle.

There was something sad about the fact that she'd learned to turn literally one of the most enjoyable things a human being could do into something cold and calculating. Not tonight. "Do you trust me?"

A tilt of her head and a slight fidget of her fingers were the only sign the question might trouble her. After two or three heart beats she said softly, "Yes."

He kissed her skin again, very lightly. "Then let me taste you."

Her breath came out in a rush, like she'd been holding it. He saw her swallow, but she lay back on the bed and gathered up a fistful of blanket in one hand. Then she repeated, in a whisper, "Yes."

Part of him was concerned she might by laying back and thinking of England, so to speak. . . but that wouldn't last long. He reached to touch her, to test her, just a gentle slide of his fingers. She was soaking wet, far more than he expected. 

_"You looked very good in your tux."_

All right, turning on the hottest woman he'd ever met just by drinking scotch and wearing formal wear was kind of an ego boost. As was the little noise she made in her throat as he stroked her. He looked at her in time to see her eyes flutter closed. Not thinking of England, then, just nervous. When he met her he'd never had imagined she had a vulnerable side. He might be the only one aware it existed. But he had every intention of treating it with the care and reverence it deserved. He stroked her clit with one finger as he kissed her thighs, her hips, her navel, trying to get her to completely relax into it.

Her breathing changed as he touched her. He listened to breath a lot, knew she could control hers as well as he could. She was now sucking in air like she'd been running a race. Her hips started to lift, pressing herself into his hand eagerly. He smiled, and then he brought his mouth down to her, tracing little patterns with his tongue.

She said his name on a gasp, then repeated it, a little firmer. As if she was assuring herself who she was with. He licked at her in earnest, focusing on her clit. She bucked at the touch and he anchored an arm over her hips, pressing her into the mattress so he could continue his teasing. Her hips still tried to move, but he was fairly certain it was to get closer, not shy away. Especially when her legs shifted, spreading wider for him, and she whispered a little, broken voiced, "Please."

He knew it was hard for her to ask even that, and he wanted her to enjoy this unabashedly. He didn't try to draw it out any longer, instead sliding two fingers in to stroke her from the inside. That got him louder, more desperate sounds as he matched his own rhythm. He loosened his grip on her hips so she could rock, taking his cue from her motions and quickening the stroke of his fingers.

Dimly he was aware of her releasing her death grip on the bedclothes. One hand sank into his hair, stroking his head almost affectionately. The other moved to her chest, cupping her breast in her little hand, pinching and rolling the nipple between her fingers. He couldn't help the groan that escaped him, the sound rumbling against her clit.

"Clint," she whispered, sounding desperate and very close to the edge. "Clint, I want, I want-" And then her voice broke into a thin wail and she was coming around his fingers, muscles clenching and pulsing against his hand and lips. He lifted his head to watch her get lost in it. He'd known she was beautiful before, but he'd never pictured this.

She lay limp on the bed a moment, breathing hard, one hand covering her breast. When she finally opened her eyes they were wide and bright. Her throat worked a moment, like she was trying to say something, but she didn't speak. Just reached out and caught his shoulder, pulling him down and herself up until she could wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his hair.

He moved up onto the bed, sitting so he could hold her better. She clung to him like she was drowning, and he rocked her and rubbed her back, waiting for her to collect herself. He was concerned for a moment she might be crying, but when she lifted her head her eyes were dry.

She studied his face a moment, looking like she'd never seen him before. Cupping her hands around his jaw, she kissed him deeply, an ocean of emotion in it. They just kissed, and he was content to be patient. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but it clearly meant a great deal to her. 

The kissing grew urgent and he let his hands roam her, cupping her breast and teasing the nipple the way she had. She gasped and lifted her mouth just enough to whisper, "I want you. I want to feel you." She covered his hand with hers, squeezed it around her flesh, harder than he would have expected. "I trust you," she added, like that was the most important thing in the world.

He had honestly never wanted any woman as much as he wanted her at that moment. He tipped her back onto the bed, her hair fanning out around her head. She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer, her hips lifting so he could feel her wet heat sliding against him. She was like a siren, but it was no act—just her, as she was. One hard thrust and he was inside her. He closed his eyes briefly, and the world narrowed to the the two of them.

She was so wet and still tight from the orgasm. Her arms twined around his shoulders and he was again surprised at how tender and affectionate the touch was. She lifted her hips again and he moved with her, stroking in and out of her heat. She moaned softly in his ear, like she couldn't help it. Like she wasn't aware of making the sound. Like she was as lost as he was.

He braced an arm beside her head and tangled his fingers into her hair, stroking the side of her face with his thumb. She felt too good for him to think about it much, but his gut told him this had become something, something other than just a fluke because of a tuxedo. Something other than just one night.

Then he could feel her tightening again, and her gasps sounded very surprised. He forced himself to hold back, just a little bit longer. "Come for me, honey," he whispered in her ear.

"Can't. I can't," she gasped. But then she was arching beneath him, legs clenching and hitching higher on his torso. The tightening turned to spasms. She cried out, wordlessly, then his name, as she rode out the climax that overwhelmed her. He closed his eyes and buried himself in her, letting his rush through him. It was so intense for a moment the room spun.

They lay there afterwards, both gasping for air, both too stunned to move.

After a while her legs loosened and dropped away from him. She started to stroke his back, fingers light and soothing on his overheated skin. He pushed up on his elbow, since he was probably smothering her. She gave him a drowsy smile, and he smiled back. "Hi."

"Hello," she murmured. "Thank you."

He chuckled. "It was _quite_ mutual, I assure you."

Something dark flickered through her eyes, almost too quick to see. Something that made him think she felt that he'd given her a hell of a lot more than she had given him. But then it was gone and she smiled again, pressing a cool hand to his cheek. "May I stay here?" she asked. "Or we could more to my rom, and the better sight lines."

"Much as I'm loathe to move, that is very tempting. And you have that tub."

"Yes. I would like to use that tub. I think I would also like you to join me in the tub."

He leaned down to give her a kiss. "Honey, you're on." Then he paused and searched her face. "You're okay?"

She grinned and he expected a flip answer. Then she sobered a little and said quietly, "It wasn't what I expected. But I'm all right."

He blinked, concerned. "I'm sorry, I didn't—" In truth, he didn't know what he was apologizing for. Just that he wanted her to smile again.

"Don't. Don't apologize." She touched his face again, rubbed her thumb along his bottom lip. "I came here expecting. . . Well I expected you to turn me down, actually. I didn't expect to learn something new." She gave him the smile he'd been hoping for. "It's a good thing. It was all good."

He kissed her fingers. "What did you learn?"

Her teeth dug into her lip a moment and he saw her trying to put into words what had just happened for her. "That I'm not broken," she said finally. "That I can have my own wants, my own feelings. That I can trust a man enough to let go."

That made him smile. "Thank you for the trust."

She gave a little nod. "Thank you for the pleasure."

His smile turned into a grin. "Get dressed. The night is young."

"Sir. Yes, sir," she said, snapping a little salute before moving to sit up.


	3. Chapter 3

_New York, 2012_

Nat wondered if they'd let her keep the staff.

Sure, it was powered by some sort of mind altering glowing thing. And she preferred guns or her widow's bite for close up work. But the staff was kind of awesome. Very old school. She could respect old school.

Banner sank onto the couch next to her, still buttoning his shirt. "I'm impressed Stark's clothing fit you," she said, giving him a once over.

"I'm not entirely sure these are his," he admitted. "They were a different size than the others."

"That information opens up all manner of interesting possibilities."

Banner smirked a little. "How's it coming?" he asked gesturing at their team mates on the other side of the room.

"The debate rages."

Stark's voice was loud enough to carry across the room. "All I'm saying is, as the king's son in a possibly despotic absolute monarchy, I don't foresee him actually getting properly punished."

"We believe in justice on Asgard," Thor replied.

"Justice is different for Royalty and Rich People," Stark replied.

"Look who's talking," Rogers said.

"Hey, just because it benefits me doesn't cause me to deny it exists." Stark pointed at Thor. "Do not start with Asgard being more evolved. After today nobody is buying it."

"There's no way we can contain him here. And clearly we can't kill him."

"Bullshit," Clint said, his voice quieter than the others, but Nat could still make it out. "Nothing survives decapitation."

The other three turned to look at him. Nat was pretty sure that was the first thing he'd said during the argument, though he'd positioned himself at Stark's right and just behind him, with a clear line of sight to Loki - who was pinned like a beetle to the floor with Thor's hammer. Visually, at least, Clint had made it obvious he was on Stark's side. She was too, and she was fairly certain that Banner would be, too, if pressed. Neither of them were the stand in a circle and yell at each other type, though. Not least of all because Banner was running out of pants to ruin.

"We can't just execute people," Rogers was saying patiently.

Stark gestured in exasperation. "Why not? I don't think he'd hesitate if it was one of us. Wouldja Sparky?" That was said in Loki's general direction. 

Loki just glared back. She wasn't sure how well he could speak, anyhow, seeing as Clint had shot him in the neck. In Rogers's defense, it would have been fatal in a human, and didn't seem much more than an annoyance to Loki.

"You gonna do it?" Rogers asked Stark. "Really?"

Clint crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll do it," he said, his voice sounding like they'd just asked if the sky was blue. "I've killed better people for worse reasons. I'm sure Stark's got something sharp enough in his lab. You can take the head home. I'll put it on a stick."

O-kay. This was taking a turn for the worse. Clint was really more a clean kill from a distance kind of guy—not a bloody head on a stake. She had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that maybe he was less all right than he looked. Thor looked like he was going to punch him, and she could feel Banner tensing up next to her.

"I hate being the voice of reason," she muttered. "Deep breaths," she added to Banner, standing to stroll over to the man circle.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I feel like one large bruise." They all swiveled to look at her and she tried to rally whatever pheromones or charm she had left to keep it that way. "We're all injured." She pointed at Clint. "Your arms are bleeding. Rogers is holding his ribs like an old man. And you-" She turned to Stark. "Sorta died for a minute there. No one is in a good place to be making a decision. Let's take ten to fix the worst of our hurts and go get some food like civilized people. I heard something about shawarma over the com."

"She is right," Rogers said. Always the steadiest temper, that one. "Though, like Stark, I have no idea what shawarma is."

"It's roast meat in a pita," Clint said, watching Nat out of the corner of his eye. She thought about when she'd first met him, and he'd fed her lamb shawarma and dolmas from what had to be the shadiest street cart in Baghdad. He'd gotten sick—she hadn't, her stomach was made of cast iron. She could have disappeared that night, but she didn't. He'd have probably hunted her down anyway.

Before anyone could say anything more, there was a roar of rotors as a black SHIELD helicopter set down on the pad outside. Stark sighed heavily. She could see Clint's shoulders tighten.

Her first instinct was to grab his arm and disappear through one doorway or another. Seemed like that would just be delaying the inevitable. She did, however, move so she was between Clint and the door leading out to the heilpad. She shifted her grip on the staff, too. If Fury wanted him, he was going through her.

Fury climbed out of the helo, Hill on his heels. He strode into the room like he owned the place and she saw him glance around the room doing a head count. There was a brief, but obvious, flicker of relief when he found them all accounted for. Say what you wanted about the man, he was protective of his people.

He sauntered over to Loki and looked down at him. "Just so you know. I have more than one boot." He reached down and yanked the arrow out, eliciting a gurgling noise from Loki. "Mmmhmm." He tossed the arrow back at Clint, and Nat had to duck so he could catch it.

Nat didn't look back to check Clint's reaction, though she did toss Hill a pointed look to make sure they were all on the same no-one-arrests-Clint-without-going-through-me page. The other woman had stationed herself by the doors and didn't seem to be an immediate threat.

Fury had made his way to the bar and was pouring himself a drink. "Did I interrupt a conversation?"

For a moment, Nat thought everyone was going to stare at the floor like caught school children. Then Thor said, "I'm taking the Tesseract back to Asgard. It needs to be locked up safe, and you don't have the capability. Otherwise this—" he waved a hand towards the window, or maybe his brother—"Will just keep happening."

Fury scanned the rest of them as he took a drink, as if waiting for some sort of argument. Nat thought he might had paused a little longer on Clint. When he was met with silence he swallowed and nodded. "Agreed. It is my personal opinion that applies to our prisoner of war over there, as well."

"So Daddy can slap him on the wrist?" Stark asked. 

Thor sighed expressively. Nat gave him maybe three more snarky comments before lightning started striking indoors. "He will be tried and punished."

"You gonna build me a cell to hold him, Stark?" Fury asked.

"Better than the last one, if you want. Or you could let one of your assassins kill him."

"For the love of Christ we are _not_ starting this argument over again," Bruce snapped from the couch. "Fury says send him home I'm for that. Let the other sufficiently advanced aliens deal with him. Tie him up in a cave with a snake for all I care."

"Look," Thor said. "He attempted to kill me. He attempted to kill my father. He invited our enemies into Asgard, and then planned to commit genocide. He destroyed the Bifrost, our only connection to other realms. Now chaos is raging everywhere and it's been very hard to contain." He gestured at the window again, to emphasize his point. He turned and looked at the rest of them. "I know he has done you and your people great harm. And for that I am truly sorry. But he has done harm to my people, and my family. If you don't believe we will punish him for what he's done to Earth, at least believe that even among princes in the most corrupt of monarchies, regicide is not tolerated."

Stark opened his mouth, stubborn look on his face, but the words never got out, because Clint said, "Okay. That'll do."

And that pretty much ended the discussion. Fury and Thor had a brief chat about when and how to get him and Loki back to Asgard. Apparently, it would need to wait till tomorrow while they fetched some for of container from New Mexico that would help channel the tesseract. Fury made sure Thor understood that Loki was his problem now. Rogers invited the old spy to shawarma but he declined, saying he was probably going to be in phone calls and meetings for the next week or two. Then he finished his drink and started back for the helipad.

He stopped in front of Nat on his way. She braced herself for some lecture or for him to try to convince Clint he needed to come in and talk to someone. But all he did was point at the staff and hold his hand out.

She stuck her lip out and held it closer. "But I like it." He tilted his head and gave her a disapproving look that was oddly paternal and waggled his fingers until she sighed and put the staff in his hand. "Spoilsport."

"Thank you." She watched Fury's eyes focus behind her. "You all right?" he asked of Clint.

"Still got all my marbles," he replied, his voice neutral.

Fury nodded sharply, then glanced down at her. She gave her own slight nod to indicate she had Clint's back and between the two assurances he seemed satisfied. He hefted the staff onto his shoulder and strolled out with Hill.

Nat turned to Clint before any other arguments could start. "I should attempt to get that glass out of your arms."

He looked down at his arms. "What about shawarma?"

"Shawarma tastes better without the risk of a shard of glass working its way into your Cephalic vein."

He sighed. "Make it quick, I'm hungry."

She looked at the others. "Give me five minutes." She steered Clint towards the bathroom, then called over her shoulder. "Stark, you should call Pepper and tell her you're alive."

"Wow, that's probably a good idea," he called back as she shut the door. The bathroom was enormous. You could house a family in there.

She opened the cabinet, hoping to find tweezers. Clint sat on the toilet lid. "You should get that cut looked at," he commented.

"It stopped bleeding." Come on, she knew Pepper stayed the night here. There had to be girly prod- ah! She unearthed a little travel toiletry kit that had tweezers and turned back to Clint, brandishing them. 

Before she got to work on the arm she leaned over and kissed the top of his head. They didn't generally indulge in any sort of public affection and had rules about what they did when others were present. But the door was closed and it had been a bad day. She still hadn’t sorted out having to fight him when Loki was controlling him. And there had been several times today she’d been afraid she’d never see him again. She could kiss him if she damn well pleased. It would hold her until they had actual privacy. 

"Glad you're not dead," she mumbled into his hair. To her surprise, his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer. He pressed his face into her stomach. She froze a moment, then wrapped her arms around his head, petting him gently. She could feel the warmth of his breath through her armor and it loosened something in her chest.

When they reached her threshold for emotional upheaval she shifted so she could start picking shards out of his shoulder. He was very still, his eyes unfocusing. He had ways of being still, of retreating in himself, that she envied. She was fairly certain of all the people she knew, he would last the longest under torture. Unless, of course, they had magic to get in there with him.

He loosened his grip so she could work down his arm. She focused on the larger, deeper pieces. Most of the rest would work out on their own or come out whenever he had a chance to shower. She still had a decent pile of glass in the sink by the time she'd worked her way up the other arm.

She wiped the fresh blood off with a damp wash cloth and leaned back to look at him. "You up for shawarma?"

"Yeah. I'm starving. And then, after that, sleep. I don't think I did either while under the spell."

The thought of him being run ragged, ignoring basic bodily needs like a zombie, sent fresh pain through her. She had to resist hugging him again. "I haven't done much in the last couple days either," she admitted. She tossed the cloth in the sink with the glass and stepped back so he could stand. 

He stood up slowly, wincing when in left knee popped. He tucked her hair behind her ear, and said, "Thank you."

She briefly considered asking him what particular act he was thanking her for. She decided it was probably an all encompassing expression of gratitude. "You'd have done the same for me."

He nodded and opened the bathroom door. "Lets go get some food."

*

Clint was kind of surprised the shawarma joint was open. Maybe they were just there cleaning up, and Stark was waving money around, so they gamely made them food. The area looked like a war zone, mostly deserted except for emergency services, soldiers—the National Guard had arrived—and business owners cleaning up.

Thor had dragged Loki down to the sidewalk and left him chained to a lamppost, under the hammer and the watch of a pack of Guardsman with M4's. He had to admit the string of indignities the bastard was experiencing was helping a bit with Clint's mental healing. The shawarma was pretty good, too.

He didn't know how much any of them really tasted it, though. They had all hit that level of exhausted where you just zoned out for minutes at a time and thinking was hard, let alone talking. Rogers appeared to be nodding off entirely.

It was for the best. He didn't feel much like talking. He did prop his leg on Nat's chair, and she let him, turning so her thigh rested along his calf. Touching her grounded him. They could have an entire conversation without words.

They plowed through three rounds of food. Well, on average, he was pretty sure Thor and Banner cleared five or six a piece. Banner was eating off Stark's plate by the end. Stark was getting that thousand yard stare that indicated he'd just realized how close he came to dying a few hours ago. That was probably as good a sign as any that they should mobilize and start finding beds for the night.

Stark managed to pay the owner, after a brief round of the owner trying to politely refuse charging the heroes of New York for their food. Stark wrote him a check and shoved it in his pocket before it got out of hand. 

It was starting to get dark when they all filed out of the restaurant. Thor went to deal with his brother and the rest of them just sort of scanned the wreckage, as if a hotel and beds would magically appear. 

"I really don't want to walk back to Brooklyn," Steve said with a sigh.

"I could call Fury, there's probably—" Nat started, but Stark cut her off.

"I have a hotel," Stark said, like he'd just remembered. "West 70's. Lights might still be on."

There was a moment of silence. "That is a shorter walk than Brooklyn," Rogers finally said. Without any other discussion, they all nodded and started making their way through the wreckage.

A couple minutes later something on Stark started to ring. He answered it, argued a moment, then handed it to Nat. She slowed to talk with whoever was on the other end. She managed to do it without yelling.

Clint was eyeing the buildings and wondering if some sort of suicidal parkour might be quicker than trudging along the streets when she caught back up with them. "SHIELD is sending in a bunch of their doctors to treat the injured. One will be meeting us at the hotel to check us out. Hill said once everyone is cleared we're on leave until further notice."

Leave? Just like that? Surely that didn't apply to him. They weren't going to just let him wander off and do what he wanted.

"Can then send us a car?" Stark called back. They were getting past the rubble, now. Not that there was anything on the street but emergency vehicles.

"Already hung up," Nat said.

But, as they reached 53rd street, a black SUV came careening down the street, dodging two cop cars and an ambulance to screech crookedly to the curb. The back door flung open and out spilled Pepper Potts, who came at them with such speed that Steve jumped out of the way, lest he be mowed down. She nearly knocked Stark over.

He rocked her a moment, rubbing her back and stroking her hair off her face. He whispered something that Clint couldn't hear, but Pepper nodded and loosened her hold on him. Stark glanced around at the rest of them. "I think someone's going to need to sit in a lap."

"Not it," Banner said immediately.

They all piled in and managed to fit. Pepper kindly volunteered to be the lap person. Certainly that made for the least amount of awkwardness. Not that he would mind having Nat sit on his lap. But they did make an attempt at public discretion about. . . whatever they were. No need to get other people's curiosities involved. 

The hotel did, in fact, have lights on. They were met in the lobby by a remarkably unruffled looking concierge. "Mr. Stark, we were told to expect you all. Rooms have been prepared and the doctor is waiting in your suite. She said she can examine you all there or visit your rooms individually."

"Thank you very much, Jason," Stark said. He waved at the rest of them, and Jason came forward to hand them keys. They were scattered all over the hotel. Clint was on the 12th floor, Banner and Nat on 16, Steve on 9, and he assumed Stark had a penthouse. For a moment, discretion warred with how much every part of Clint's body hurt, the he leaned over, held out his key to Banner and raised an eyebrow. The other man swapped keys without comment, though he raised his own eye brow.

Nat didn't comment either, but she did sneak him a sly smile on the way to the elevators. 

"My knee hurts," he muttered between floors 12 and 16, when it was just them and Stark and Pepper—who were not paying attention to anything else other than each other.

"I'm impressed you can narrow it down to one body part," she told him. He'd noticed she wasn't moving with her usual grace. She might actually have stumbled a little on the hike from the restaurant. 

The door pinged, and as they stepped off Stark called, "I'll send the doctor down!" before the door closed. They picked the closer of the two rooms, which turned out to open with Clint's key. He pushed the door open and fumbled for the lights.

It was a _nice_ room. He supposed Stark didn't own cheap things. Nat groaned and beelined for the bed, sitting to pry her boots off. "I don't know if I'm going to make it until the doctor gets here."

He leaned against the counter, taking a breath deep enough it was painful. "I cracked a couple a ribs, getting them wrapped might be a good idea." Boots off sounded wonderful, though. Getting out everything sounded wonderful. "My kingdom for a clean t-shirt and sweats."

"I knew there was more things I should bug Hill for," she muttered. She'd lost her tac belt back at the Tower so there wasn't much else for her to strip off. She unzipped the top of her catsuit and tugged it down to her waist, leaving her in a sweat stained tank top. 

Suddenly she brightened. "Oh. I bet there's robes."

"Suppose I'll need to be a gentleman and let you have the shower first." Up until she mentioned robes, he'd only been thinking about the bed. Now he remembered that hotels also had showers, and that sounded pretty amazing. Though, to be very honest, she'd been fighting hand to hand and looked way dirtier than he was.

She got to her feet slowly and with obvious stiffness. "You are a kind and decent human being," she told him solemnly. She paused on her way to the bathroom to kiss his cheek. "I'll try to be quick."

He smiled at her, and watched her go in and close the door. The water came on a moment later, and he stripped out of his filthy gear. Which unearthed more glass and caused more bleeding. The shards had even gotten under his undershirt. He found some tissues to clean it off with, and then inspected the rather impressive bruising, particularly on his back. It was all right, though. Pain was distracting. It kept him from thinking.

He was still contemplating all the colors his side was going to turn when there was a knock at the door. The shower was still going, but he figured they could explain themselves later. He didn't bother to tug his shirt back on when he answered the door.

On the other side was a woman roughly as tall as him, with dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, hazel eyes behind wire framed glasses and a wicked looking scar down the left side of her face. She looked vaguely familiar, but he was too tired to place where. Probably at some SHIELD med clinic or another. She gestured with a hand carrying an army green duffel bag. "Agent Barton? I'm Dr. Newbury, to check you out."

He stepped back. He really was not looking forward to this. God alone knew what other people in SHIELD had heard about him by now. "Come on in."

She followed him into the room and set the bag down on one of the little accent chairs that were strewn about the room. She gave him an obvious once over as she unzipped the bag and started unpacking things. "How many broken ribs?" she asked conversationally.

Clint sighed. "At least two. I rappelled through a window and landed on my quiver. The thing that holds the arrows." _Also, a crazy God took over my head for a few days._ He didn't say that part out loud.

"Ah, yes, you're the archer." She dug in the bag another moment. "I'll get a pressure bandage on you, I just want to check out the lacerations first." She pointed a the bed. "Sit."

He obeyed. "Romanov picked most of the glass out, but there was more under my shirt."

She brought a flashlight, tweezers and basin over and kneeled behind him. There was some tugging and the clink of glass in the basin. "A couple of these are deep. How would you feel about me putting a few stitches in you? Also, you have a bit of a goose egg on your head. Were you knocked out?"

He reached up and touch the lump. "I'd almost forgotten about that. I don't know how long, but Romanov will know."

"What will I know?" she asked from the bathroom doorway. She was wrapped in a pristine white robe, with a towel around her hair. She actually smiled a little when she saw them. "Dr. Newbury, good to see you."

"Agent Romanov," the doctor said as she climbed off the bed. "He's a much better patient than you."

"I'm hoping you have some narcotics in your bag he replied." And he hoped she hurried. There was a shower waiting for him.

"Oh, good, you're pro pain killer. I'm in no mood for pointless machismo. I'm looking at you, Agent Romanov." Newbury rummaged in her bag and returned to the bed. She handed him a pill bottle. "One now, the next one in no less than four hours. I'm going to use some lidocaine for your back. Give me a couple minutes to stitch up the worst wounds and bind your ribs and I'll be out of your hair."

"Should I shower before you bind?"

"Probably a good idea." He felt a pinch of the lidocaine needle and a few moments later a pleasant numbness took over the sting of the glass cuts. "I can work on Agent Romanov while you clean up."

"Don't be too hard on her," he said, directing the comment at Nat. She smiled at him as he got up to go into the bathroom.


	4. Chapter 4

Nat watched the door click shut, then turned back to Dr. Newbury. "I don't need stitches."

The other woman arched a brow and looked pointedly at the cut on Nat's head. "Did you get your medical degree since last we met?"

"The bleeding has stopped," she tried, but sat still as the doctor came over to look at it.

"Anything broken?" Newbury asked as she cleaned off some of the dried blood.

Nat did a little self assessment. She’d broken enough bones to know. "No, pretty sure it's all soft tissue. Maybe a bruised rib or two." The doctor's hands immediately moved to Nat's torso to check for herself.

"Barton said you'd know how long he was unconscious after his head injury." Her fingers touched Nat’s sore ribs, and pressed her abdomen in search of tenderness.

"Um, about two hours? Little less. It was before the fighting." The prodding fingers weren't pleasant, but didn't send off any sharp stabs.

Apparently satisfied, the doctor let go of her ribs and grabbed another lidocaine needle and suture kit. "I'm stitching it whether you like it or not. Facial scars are no fun."

There was probably no way to argue with that without offending the other woman. And she liked Dr. Newbury, as much as she knew her, so she kept quiet as she worked.

"Why did you knock him unconscious before the fighting started?"

Nat paused before answering, but realized the rumors would fly no matter what. "He was brainwashed and being controlled by the bad guy."

Newbury didn't look away from her stitching. "Ah." Silence stretched for a bit, and then she added. "He could probably do for a CAT scan. And a psych eval."

Yeah, that wasn't going to be a fun discussion. "Don't suppose you can do that real quick?"

"Regrettably, they haven't made a portable CAT scan yet. And I didn't do very well in my psych rotation." She finished her stitches and taped a bandage on Nat's head. "He probably doesn't have a concussion, if he managed to fight the whole battle."

Nat noted she didn't mention the whole brainwashing thing. That probably wasn't covered in her residency. 

"Keep an eye on him tonight? If you notice any disorientation, slurred speech. Anything weird. Call me. Don't call an ambulance, the city hospitals are overwhelmed as it is."

She should probably mad about the rather large assumption the doctor had just made. But hell, it gave her a good excuse to share a room with Clint for the night. "Don't suppose you have any spare clothes in that magic bag of yours?"

"No, but if you give me sizes I could tell the concierge to find some on my way out."

That was probably the best she was going to get. At least the robe was nice. Dr. Newbury was done with her, and Clint was still in the shower. She could go check on him, but that would be visibly indicating a level of intimacy that she wasn't sure she wanted to share with the SHIELD medical staff.

Newbury sorted her equipment a minute, then gave Nat a bottle of pills like she had Clint. "I know you don't need pain killers, but you might change your mind in the morning. Every six hours. Don't mix them up with Barton's there's like a hundred and thirty pounds between you two."

"Yet I can still drink him under the table," she commented. The shower went off.

"This is where I should tell you not to drink on the meds but now I want to set up some sort of contest."

Nat grinned. And that was why she liked Dr. Newbury.

Clint came out in a towel and the doctor went to work on his back. Nat saw him wince at one point and went around to check out the doc’s progress. One of the wounds crossed his spine and probably wouldn't have healed well on its own. Bet the stitching hadn't felt too good, though. She reached out and touched his arm lightly, giving it a comforting squeeze.

Newbury finished and bandaged his back, smeared antiseptic goop over just about everything else, then wrapped his very bruised ribs with a pressure bandage.

"I gave you enough pain killer to last through tomorrow," she explained as she repacked her things. "After that, if you're still willing to admit it hurts come find me and I'll give you some more. I'm just hoarding my stash at the moment." She slung the duffel strap over her arm. "You have my number," she said, mostly to Nat. "Text me clothing sizes and I'll find someone to deliver it to you. Call me if anything starts to hurt, there's bleeding or any signs of concussion we talked about. If there's nothing else I will move on and let you get some sleep."

"Thanks," Clint said quietly. The doctor smiled and let herself out. He picked up his bottle and popped the lid. "Did she say one or two?"

"One now, one in four hours. I have to wait longer, she must like you better."

He took one, and swallowed it dry. Then he stretched out on one of the beds, and winced as he did so. Very gingerly he rolled over onto his stomach, and then turned his head to look at her. "How many people do you think died today?"

She'd dug the phone she'd acquired out of the ruin of her clothing and had started to text Newbury their clothing sizes. This was not a conversation she wanted to have right now. This was not where his thoughts should be going. But she'd made a point to never lie to him or treat him like a mark. So she looked back at her texting and gave it some thought. "We minimized as much as we could on the ground. I know Steve had the cops evacuating. It was probably mostly people up in the buildings. Couple hundred? It's going to take days to get a final tally."

"It's got to be way more than that. Watching it from the air, it sure looked like that anyway. Seeing the whole picture. Just the number of buildings. . ." He sighed. "It had to be in the middle of a city."

"That is where Stark tends to build things." She finished the message to the doctor and tossed the phone back on the pile of clothes. "I saw more evacuees than bodies," she said, still being truthful. "But on the ground you don't see the scope."

He closed his eyes. "One death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic. I wonder where the line is."

Quoting Stalin was probably not a good sign. God, she was tired. She pulled the sheets back on the other bed, shedding the robe to slide in naked. "It's probably different for everyone."

He opened his eyes again, and looked at her for a long moment. She couldn't really read him, which was rare, and worrisome. She could see more than hear him sigh. "Did you take your pill?"

It took her a moment to remember, that's how tired she was. Finally, she nodded. "While she was stitching you," she confirmed.

That got her a nod. "Good night, Natasha," he said.

She thought about asking him if she needed to worry about him. If she was going to wake up to him gone in the morning. Ask him what, exactly, he'd been doing standing in the broken window at the end of the battle today. But she was exhausted and he was exhausted and for the moment she decided their problems could be dealt with in the morning. So she just closed her eyes and said, "Good night, Clint."

*

Natasha was out cold. Clint was as bone-tired as he'd ever been in his life, but sleep was elusive. Maybe because his back stung. There was something about small cuts, particularly a lot of them, that was more distracting than real pain. Nerves were funny like that.

The quiet knocking on the door didn't wake her, which probably spoke to how exhausted she was. He got up as quietly as he could and went to find the concierge on the other side with a bundle of clothes. He set them on the dresser and sifted through them, finding sweatpants that looked like they'd fit. Better than sitting around in a towel.

He gazed out the window for a while, but there was nothing to see, really, other than the vague glow of fires and emergency lights to the south. He went back to his bed, looking over at Nat for a moment. He had the strongest urge to crawl in there with her. But two bruised people didn't sleep well in a double bed. So instead, he turned the TV on, muted. He didn't need to hear the news anchors, anyway. The footage they were showing spoke plenty.

He lost track of how long he sat there watching it all. Talking heads popped up once in a while, some looking angry, some calm. The sky was starting to lighten when Nat stirred. Her eyes were open when he looked over.

"You didn't sleep."

He could hear accusation in her voice, so he replied with a clipped, "Nope."

She sighed and pushed herself up into a sit. "Even on Vicodin. That's impressive."

"Helps that it didn't really work." He scrubbed his eyes. He really wished he had slept, and not sat up watching disaster footage. His dreams would have shown him just as much shit, only at least he might also be rested.

Nat looked like she might say something else, but seemed to change her mind. She spotted the pile of clothes on the dresser and stood, walking over bare-assed to sort through it all. "You want to talk?" she asked as she stepped into jeans.

He watched her, because no matter how crappy he might feel, he always enjoyed looking at her naked. "I don't know what there is to say."

"You stayed up all night watching news footage for at least part of it. Seems like you might have some stuff on your mind." She frowned as she rummaged through the clothes. "Don't tell me they forgot a bra."

"There wasn't any underwear," he offered. Even if there was, it probably wouldn't be up to her standards. She liked very fancy, very expensive lingerie. In all the years they'd been lovers, he'd found La Perla under everything from evening gowns to dusty BDUs.

This information was met with a string of curses in various languages. He recognized French, Arabic and Russian. Russian was bad. Russian was _pissed_. She yanked a tank top over her head, then a t-shirt and scowled.

"Maybe we'll have time to go shopping before. . . whatever. What are we supposed to do now, anyway?"

"Technically we're on leave until further notice. Thor is taking Loki back to Asgard in a couple hours, might be good to watch."

"I don't think that will be as fun as killing him." But, probably better than nothing. "And I can't imagine the leave applies to me."

Nat shrugged and came over to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. It reminded him of their chat on the helicarrier after he'd woken up. Talking without having to look at each other. "Hill said the doctor would check us out and then we had leave. There was no mention of you as an exception."

He leaned forward and braced his arms on his knees. "If I were Fury, I would certainly put me in a cell or a padded room."

"He didn't put me in one," she said. "All those years ago. And I was far more in control of my actions than you."

"If I recall, you never shot him, blew up a helicarrier, or helped stage an alien invasion."

She looked off in the distance a moment. "If he was going to lock you up somewhere he'd have done it last night. Had the perfect opportunity in the Tower."

"Say what you want about Fury, he does seem a fan of leaving people their dignity. I didn't expect him to haul me off in front of everyone. With Loki sitting there." He wanted to touch her, like maybe it would ground him. And she was sitting right there. Certainly he could. But then, maybe he didn't want to feel better.

She was quiet a moment. Then said softly, "He'll have to go through me. And probably some of the others. Rogers. Maybe Stark."

"Don't—You shouldn't—" He shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. Did he _want_ to get locked in the Fridge? Self pity and self flagellation were really not his style. Natasha agonized over her past, her ledger. He always told her just to worry about the day in front of her. Of course, he did not have a ledger. Or he hadn't before now. It was heavier, harder to carry than he thought it would be.

Light fingers touched his arm and he looked down to find her tracing the half moon bruise her teeth had left on him. "I worked too hard to get you back to lose you to bureaucracy. Yeah, someone's probably going to have to answer for all this. But it shouldn't be you. Any more than it should be Selvig or - or Stark for owning the building."

He watched her fingers. "You know, I remember everything. Clear as a bell. I'd like to tell you there was some part of me that was conscious and screaming silently or whatever—nope. I was just suddenly someone else. With unswerving loyalty and no conscience."

She nodded but didn't say anything. There was nothing to say and they both knew it. She understood what it had been like better than anyone else and still there was nothing she could have said to make it better. The silence grew heavy between them, in a way it almost never did.

Until she broke it with an echo of advice he'd given her once. "You don't have to let the last few days define the rest of them."

"Some things can't be put aside," he said, hating the way his voice caught.

She looked over at him, green eyes calm and cool. People thought she was cold, heartless. Stark had once accused her of having nothing real about her. Clint knew the truth. That she was only cold to hide how deeply she felt things. "You don't put it aside. You don't forget it. You tuck it away and you take it out, let it cut you all over again. Until you learn who you are with it. It won't be who you were before. But it doesn't have to be _bad_."

He nodded, because he wasn't sure what to say. Or if he could say anything in a steady voice. She was likely right. But it sounded long, and awful. He sure as hell couldn't see how it would be _good_. 

Maybe she read all that on his face, because she slid an arm around his shoulders and tugged him close, until his head rested half on her shoulder and half on her breast. "You don't have to do it alone," she told him softly.

He held onto her, closing his eyes and breathing her scent. "I'm sorry I tried to kill you," he said finally.

She rubbed his back. "You weren't trying very hard. You had the knife in the wrong hand."

"Maybe there was a little of me in there, yet." He remembered fighting her very clearly. He remembered feeling the ghost of . . . something. Not emotion, Loki seemed to have turned all emotion off. But there had been something in his gut. Something that had unsettled him. Maybe that had been just enough.

He felt her kiss his head. "Hey. Now you can tell people how you got bit by a black widow and survived."

Since that made him smile a little, he straightened so she could see it. He really wanted to lay back down and take her with him. Maybe with her tucked against him he could sleep. But they had things to do today. Such as returning Loki from whence he came.

The thought made him angry, still. If he dwelt on it much he was pretty quickly filled with a level of rage that scared him. He'd never wanted to actually kill someone with his bare hands before. Slaughter them personally and burn the corpse. The violence of the urge itself was probably the best indicator he should let Thor deal with him. But it didn't make the desire go away.

She studied him a moment and he wondered what she saw in his face. Maybe the anger. Maybe the exhaustion. She lifted a hand and stroked his hair back from his face. "For right now why don't we find food and see if anywhere is selling real clothes?"

He took a deep breath. Something to do would be very good. "Sounds like a plan."

Nat smiled and cupped his face so she could kiss him, first his mouth, then his forehead as she stood. She looked down at him a moment, eyes searching his, then gave a little nod before moving off to find her boots.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically it's still Friday in California.
> 
> I blame the turkey coma. Enjoy!

That afternoon, they stood in a circle in Central Park, as Thor and the others prepared to take both the Tesseract and Loki back to Asgard. Nat felt much better having obtained an actual bra. Clint was hiding behind sunglasses, but seemed in a somewhat decent mood. The SHIELD agents who'd come to clear them space in the park and man the perimeter had even brought them a car. 

Selvig had shown up, looking a bit harried but mostly sane as he pulled out the lantern-like container for the tesseract. Team Science looked very cautious as they transferred it from Stark's case to the container. Nat had to admit, she would feel a bit safer with that off her damn planet.

Thor was saying his goodbyes and she didn't think Clint had taken his eyes off Loki since he'd walked up. The god's - alien's, whatever's - head was bowed and he was certainly trussed up like a game hen. But it wasn't really defeat she read in his eyes when he finally glanced up. Well, that was Thor's problem, not hers.

She leaned over to murmur in Clint's ear. "You think they have prison bitches in Asgard?"

Nat was pleased that made him smirk. In fact, it was almost a laugh. 

Thor held the tesseract out to his brother expectantly, glaring until the other man took a hold of it. With a final nod of farewell from Thor, he twisted something on the container and it blazed blue, swallowing the two Asgardians and sucking them up to the sky. They all took a couple instinctive steps back from it. Clint tipped his head back to watch it disappear into the blue of the sky.

And then they all just stood there for a moment, before people started moving back towards the car. She waved Banner down. "We've got your bag in our car."

She didn't really know how to apologize for dragging him into this mess or wish him well on whatever he was doing now. Giving him his duffel full of clothes seemed to be good enough for him, he was smiling as he headed over to Stark's car. Well, good to see they'd struck up a bromance of some sort.

Clint was obviously not in a stay-and-chat mood, though he managed an almost civil nod at the rest of them before pulling the driver's door open. She waved to Rogers as he got on his bike and she climbed into the passenger seat next to Clint.

He started the engine. "Well. Now what?"

That was an excellent question. "I have an apartment in DC," she offered. "Nice view. No cable. Obscenely opulent shower. Nice place to hunker down for a few days."

"I also have an apartment in DC. Though it's honestly kind of a hole. I'm never there much." Funny, they never went to each other's places. Their relationship, such that it was, remained more or less in the field. In the blowing off of adrenaline after a mission. At least, that’s what they kept telling themselves. The definition of “field” was becoming ever more flexible, it seemed.

She was quiet as he drove out of the park and started to crawl through New York traffic. "Of course my _Paris_ apartment is where I keep the map of all the countries we've had sex in. If you want to get farther away from this mess."

"I think the airports are still closed." He paused. "You don't seriously have a map, do you?"

"Now you'll never know." She did, in fact, have a map. It had started as a joke, with check marks in an atlas. Then it had gotten crowded and she'd bought a kid's coloring map of the world and started tracking. She sincerely hoped they'd get to all of them someday.

When he finally got to the George Washington Bridge, which was mercifully still open, he said, "How can you not have cable?"

"I'm not there enough to make it worth the monthly fee. Setting it up every time I go is a pain in the ass. I have Netflix and a computer. I manage. Go to movies. Read."

"Do you have a girly couch?"

"Well, it's a couch owned by a girl so-" Even through the sunglasses she could tell what look he was giving her. "Define girly couch."

"Small, uncomfortable, possibly full of too many pillows so you can't really sit on on. Form over function."

And sometimes it was like he didn't know her at all. "No. I have a leather Lay-Z-Boy sectional with reclining backs and a center console with cooler. It cost almost five grand. You can sleep on this couch, Clint. You can get _lost_ in this couch." She paused. "There are a lot of pillows and throw blankets but that's only in the interest of napping."

"You do like your creature comforts," he said, smiling as he got on the NJ Turnpike heading south.

"This is an apartment with jets on the shower wall," she informed him. She leaned down to tug her boots off. "This is my post mission unwinding apartment. If there was a way to make it more comfortable, I found it." She propped her bare feet up on the dash and reached over to fiddle with the radio. "If we're road tripping we should stop somewhere for salty snacks and soda."

"Turnpike rest stops usually have a Roy Rogers. I think they're the only ones left."

She smiled and tipped her head back against the seat back, something poppy and autotuned coming out of the speakers. "Fried chicken. Now it's a road trip."

Four and a half hours later, Clint pulled the car up in front of her apartment building. He idled the engine and covered a yawn. "I can head over to my place. . ."

Inviting him in did probably constitute an upgrade to their relationship of some sort. It certainly broke the last of their rules. This was her personal space, not some random hotel room or safehouse. Not a stolen moment here or there. But really, what was he going to learn about her that he didn't already know? He knew her clothing size, shoe size and preferred heel height. He could tell what kind of persona she was employing by which perfume she had on. Hell, he probably knew her favorite shampoo and ice cream brands. Did letting him in to see what kind of coffee table she had really make a difference?

So she put a hand on the door and jerked her head towards the building. "Don't be stupid, come on."

He turned off the engine, and stared through the windshield. "I'm not sure how good of company I'll be."

Instinct told her he shouldn't be alone. Experience told her pushing him was a bad idea. She was going to need to tread very carefully. "Are you really going to give up the chance to make out with me on the most comfortable couch in DC?"

He looked at her, and even with the sunglasses she could see it warring on his face. Desire mixed with guilt. He wanted her but wasn't sure he should be enjoying anything. He also looked, honestly, as exhausted as she'd ever seen him, in all the years they'd worked together. Her desire to wrap her arms around him was nearly overwhelming. She was tired, too. They could just lay down and face it all in the morning.

If she thought he was going to go to what ever shitty apartment he had here and go to bed she might have let him go. But she didn't think that's what he was going to do. She thought he was going to buy a very large bottle of alcohol - probably tequila, but it might just be whatever was nearest the register - go to his shitty apartment, drink and stare at the unending news footage. And that way led madness. Literally.

She reached out and tugged his sleeve gently. "C'mon, I'm not ready to be alone yet." Let him think it was for her, that he was helping her in some way. And he was. She'd spent the last few days unsure if she'd see him again. Her lack of sleep was catching up to her and she hadn't processed everything yet either. She didn't want to spend all night worried about him. Or, worse, tracking down his shitty apartment and hovering outside to make sure he didn't do anything stupid.

That, at least, seemed to work for him, as he opened his door. She let out a small sigh of relief and climbed out of her side as well.

Her building was an old Federal style just a few blocks from the White House. Clint gave the wood lined and leather appointed lobby his usual sweeping glance, but didn't comment, even when she waved at the door man and the concierge. He was silent in the elevator up to her floor and when she unlocked her door and ushered him inside.

He wandered towards that windows, checking sight lines and entry points. She left him to it to check the kitchen. She had called the concierge from the Roy Rogers and asked him to stock her fridge and cupboards with food for both her and Clint. He'd out done himself, there was enough food to feed a small army, including two steaks defrosting in the fridge which would make a good dinner tonight. Satisfied, she went back to the living room and leaned on the wall, arms crossed, watching Clint explore her space.

"I approve of your couch," he told her. He took his sunglasses off and dropped them on the coffee table. Then he sat to take his boots off. "Got anything to drink?"

"There's soda, beer and iced tea in the fridge. I can make coffee if you prefer."

She watched him consider, and then he said, "Coffee." That seemed like a good sign to her, over something alcoholic. Though, not if it meant he was just going to try and never sleep. One problem at a time. She nodded and went back to the kitchen and started the coffee. She passed him on her way to the bedroom and saw him inspecting her remote.

Stripping off her shoes and clothes felt almost as good as it had the night before. She changed into soft grey yoga pants and a tank top with a bunny holding a switchblade on it and went back out to him.

The TV was on. She had no cable, only an antenna, for the occasional news event she wasn't involved with, and the Oscars. It only got three or four channels depending on the weather, but at least one of them was still still replaying New York footage, 24 hours later.

She stifled a sigh and reminded herself he was still processing. They seemed to be doing witness interviews, maybe seeing survivors would help. 

"I just feel like they should bear some responsibility," the woman on the screen was yapping. "Couldn't they fight without smashing buildings? Did no one think of the collateral damage?"

Or, maybe not.

Nat went to the kitchen and fixed them both coffee before returning to the couch. "Is this the best thing for you to be watching?"

"People being idiots? Maybe not." He took the coffee she offered. He took a swig. "Though, hilariously enough, I think collateral damage was the point. He wanted as big a splash as he could get. We just fought where the battle happened."

"Well, that was how we figured out where to go." She tucked her legs under herself, sipping her coffee. "Something about Stark and Rogers brainstorming and figuring out he was a diva. Much like Stark."

"I had the whole operation set up underground. SHIELD can find anything it can scan for, so I wanted to be as far down as possible. All he did was whine about how he didn't want to hide in caves. I had to invent him an opportunity to showboat just to get him out of my hair. That museum in Stuttgart—you know I could have been in and out without anybody knowing I was there."

She smiled, she couldn't help it, so she hid it in her coffee cup. Clint could plan a trip to Mars with some string, toothpaste and an '87 Buick. Of course he'd been the one behind the sneaky bits. Looking back, the parts with Clint's finger prints and the parts with Loki's were blatantly obvious. "Well, it got him on the carrier. Which seemed to be what he wanted." She drank more coffee. "Did I tell you I did my thing on him?"

"No." He looked over at her. "He interrogated me about everyone, including you. I told him everything. Which about you is. . . a lot."

_"Is this love, Agent Romanov?_

Yeah, she bet it had been an earful. He'd played her as well as she'd played him. It had worked for her in the end. The best cons had something real behind them. Still. It had been a long time since a mark had managed to get under her skin. To hook a finger in a sore spot and _tug_. She was going to be hearing that fucking accent in her nightmares, she was sure.

None of that was information that would help Clint any. So she said, "Turns out, even megalomaniacal god-things can fall into webs."

"Good," he said emphatically. The TV was rolling footage of the live battle again, screaming people and smashing cars. To her relief, he turned it off. "Stark told me he killed Coulson."

She let a fresh stab of grief tighten her chest before answering. "Yeah. Yeah he did. Phil shot him with a destroyer gun though. Put him through a wall."

"I really wanted to kill him, Nat. I wanted to _hurt_ him."

The rage in his voice made her hurt a different way. Clint was always stable. Steady. A sniper through and through. She reached out and put a hand on his knee, not trying to start anything, just to let him feel her. She was not a toucher by any stretch of the imagination. Oh, sure, she knew how to flirt or tease when working a mark. She'd kiss a stranger if it would keep her from blowing a cover or getting spotted by an enemy. But on her own time, in her own skin? Respect Natasha's personal bubble, thank you.

Except for him. Clint was tactile. Clint messed with things. His bow, his arrows. He'd pick up a coin from the ground just to flip it. And he touched her. Freely and thoughtlessly. When they'd first started working together it had unsettled her, then annoyed her, then she'd adapted. Once they'd started their. . . arrangement, she'd filed it away as long term foreplay and stopped paying attention to it. Then she'd gotten used to it, to the point she missed it when they were apart. He had long ago become someone she was comfortable with, someone she enjoyed touching. And God, how she had missed him the last few days.

He folded his hand over hers, and then he lifted and turned it, so he could kiss the inside of her wrist. For a moment he just held it there against his face. "You think I'd feel better if I had?"

"For a while," she admitted. "But the satisfaction would have faded and you still would have had to live with yourself."

"That part's pretty hard to fathom," he said, sounding a little surprised by his own honesty.

She settled closer to him, so her arm pressed against his. He still had her hand in a loose grip. "What? Living with yourself?"

He lowered her hand. "Sorry. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me."

"You don't have to apologize to me. For anything." Only Clint would feel bad about needing comfort after what had been done to him.

"I think I might be really fucked up. Right now." His voice was harsh, but he sounded almost. . . scared.

Her heart ached for him. He had done so much, helped her in so many ways, since the day they'd met. And she was helpless to do anything for him.

She squeezed his hand. "You probably are. Which, I think, is a pretty normal reaction to what was done to you."

"I think I should go. But I want to stay. You feel like the only steady thing in the universe."

She shifted to look at him more fully. "At the risk of sounding like a shrink, why do you think you should go?"

That got her a dark chuckle. "You know me. Distance is the answer to everything. Isolation. Can't hurt anyone if no one is nearby." 

Up in the heights and down on the ground. It was the fundamental difference in them. She got in people's heads, got her hands dirty. She'd wrestled with these demons - or ones like them - too many times to count. She leaned on him, enough he felt the pressure. The heat of her body. "I want you to stay," she said honestly. "Don't shut yourself off from the only fixed point you feel you have."

He rested his forehead on hers. "I can't turn you into the thing that keeps me sane," he whispered. "That isn't fair."

"It's only for a little while," she told him. "Until you find your line of sight again." She touched his jaw with her fingertips, felt the faintest scratch of stubble. "You've been that for me more times than I can count."

He sighed, and she heard the little shudder that went with it. It sounded a bit like surrender. She let her hands slide up into his hair. When he didn't try to pull back she closed her eyes and kissed him. That he didn't fight. Instead his arms slid around her and he pulled her very slowly into his lap. They were both so bruised and sore, this probably wasn't the best idea. But it felt both inevitable and necessary. It was how they sorted themselves out. A better method of communicating than talking in circles. Neither of them seemed very good at expressing their feelings, except when they were naked. It let them say all sorts of things they didn’t have the words for.

His hands were warm through the thin cotton of her shirt. He was always warmer than her. A little furnace. It was a pain in the ass in the jungle, but quite handy when they were stationed somewhere northern. The fabric rumpled and bunched under his palms and she let go of him, leaning back so he could tug it off. When he did so, he grinned widely; she imagined he was pleased she had no bra under it. It had been a deliberate choice, as he tended to break the fragile clasps. She'd never told him that sometimes she bought some specifically flimsy, just for him to snap. Admitting that, that she bought lingerie just for him, would be too much. She wondered sometimes if he knew anyway.

At the moment, he seemed more interested in gently mapping the bruises on her torso. Most were from the Chitauri. Some from the Hulk. Some from him. Really, it was kind of a miracle she didn't have a broken rib or five. Not that that would have stopped her. It certainly wasn't stopping him. She covered his hand with hers, tracing fingers up his forearm. She was often in charge of their little rendezvous. Time, place. Pacing. His version of being a gentleman, maybe. Today it seemed important to let him set the tone.

He cupped one of her breasts, rubbing his thumb over the nipple. "You manage to be gorgeous covered in bruises and bandaids," he murmured.

"I like to think the battle wounds only enhances the beauty," she told him, smiling.

"Yeah." He looked up at her, his eyes serious. She wished she could make everything better. Make the shadows go away. He looked like he might say something, but instead just pulled her back down for another kiss.

She sank into him, winding her arms around his neck. He leaned back a little and she ended up sprawled on his chest, topless with him still fully dressed. She slid her hands down and tucked them under his shirt, rucking it up until she had to lean away and tug it off him. He was just as bruised as her, the pressure bandage still wrapped around his ribs. When she resettled on him she put as much weight on the other side as possible.

"It's just a scratch," he told her, sinking his fingers into her hair to hold her close. He kissed his way down her neck. "I'm not stopping at just making out."

Her eyes drifted shut and she pressed her cheek against the top of his head. "I'm up for anything you are, Barton."

His hands cupped her waist, and then he slid his fingers under the waistband of her yoga pants. "I don't think either of us is up for acrobatics today."

"Oh, I could probably manage a flip or two." She tightened her abs to lift up so he could put the pants down. Her core muscles immediately reminded her that she was not, in fact, a super solider. "Maybe not," she muttered around a groan. He chuckled, and their mutual lack of agility made getting her pants off less elegant than usual. There had been times after a mission where they'd started at the door and stripped themselves of armor and weapons and gear by the time they reached the bed, all while walking and barely breaking the kiss. Now they struggled with yoga pants.

Eventually they went the way of their shirts and she started to work on his belt buckle and fly. "The first time I met Dr. Newbury she popped my dislocated arm back into place and lectured me about injury related early-onset arthritis." Nat flung the belt towards the bedroom and shifted to start tugging his pants down. "I suppose if we live long enough we'll be full of old aches and pains that won't go away."

He lifted his hips to aid her in her task. "We'll only be able to have sex on an orthopedic mattress."

She could have just tugged them down to his thighs, giving her plenty of room for their needs. But she found herself wanting him as bare as she was. She needed to feel him, to touch as much of his skin as possible. So she went through the extra effort of getting them down his legs and onto the floor before climbing back on top of him for a kiss. "Okay?" she murmured on his mouth.

He sucked her lower lip between his teeth, "Naked woman in my lap? I think I'm good."

"Just good?" she teased. She reached between, sliding her hand down his stomach to curl her fingers around his cock. 

For a moment his eyes closed, and he whispered, "Please, I need you."

It wasn't the first time he'd said it. There was a limited amount of things one could say to a long time partner while still avoiding the word love. Need and want covered a lot of it. They both used them often. This time she sensed there was a great deal behind the words he was leaving unsaid. She didn't have it in her to try to draw it out, so she let her body speak instead. She kissed him, tongue spearing into his mouth as she tilted her hips and let him spear inside her. He gripped her hips and pulled her down tight, making a sound that was half sigh, half groan. "Yeah. Exactly that." He brought his hand around and his thumb brushed her clit.

She let out a shaky breath and sat up a little, hands braced on the back of the couch for leverage. She watched his face as she started to move on him, a little smile playing on her lips. He had his eyes open again. Like most men, he liked to watch. How much a woman enjoyed that particular look in a man's eyes depended on how she felt about the man. Many of her targets made her uncomfortable when they stared. But this one, she loved it when he looked at her like she was the only woman left in the world.

His hands and his face and his body told her what she needed to know about pace and depth. She toed the line between what he needed and what she did, letting her orgasm build and fade, teasing them both. She didn't want to torment him, just make it last as long as it could. As if that would make up for the worry and fear of the last few days. As it every thrust and stroke and movement could erase the lingering sense of panic. Counteract the awareness of how close she'd come to losing him.

When his jaw started to tighten she knew he was close to his limit and increased her pace, shifting the angle until she tipped over her edge, shuddering her release. His fingers bit into her skin, holding her as he surged up, following just a heartbeat behind her.

She sank down on top of him, nuzzling at his shoulder as she got comfortable. She could hear his heart pounding under her cheek and closed her eyes, lulled by the sound. He slid his hands up her back and wrapped his arms around her tight. He pressed his face into her hair, and with a choked voice he whispered, "Tasha." A moment later, she felt his shoulders shake.

It stunned her, and she felt the burn of her own tears at the back of her eyes. Fighting them back, she stroked his arm and shoulder as best she could. "I'm here," she told him softly. "You got me."

He didn't make a sound aside from a little shuddery breathing, but his arms tightened, and he held on. Nat squeezed her eyes shut and held him in return. She didn't tell him it was all right or that it was all over, because it wasn't and probably never really would be. But he seemed to need to know she was there, so she stroked his hair and pet his shoulder and murmured Russian poetry to him, because she could think of nothing else to say. She could feel his tears on her neck, and she thought her heart might crack right in half.

Eventually he stilled, and his voice was completely normal when he asked, "How do I make this thing recline?"

Clint could compartmentalize better than she could sometimes. She stroked his hair gently and kissed him. "There's a button, between the cushions," she muttered into his skin. He reclined the seat they were in, and then dragged down one of blankets she had draped across the back. Once it was tucked around them, he resettled her a little, and gently rubbed her back.

"Does the couch pass muster?" she asked him, shifting her legs around his to get comfortable but still keep them in as much contact as possible.

"Mmmm," was all she got back from him, and it was very drowsy sound at that. Perhaps he was physically and emotionally drained enough to finally sleep.

She was quiet, rubbing his shoulder lightly. His pulse continued to calm and his breathing evened out. After about twenty minutes his arms went slack around her and she risked lifting her head to confirm he was asleep. She smiled and kissed his jaw. "Goodnight, Clint."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late chapter. I had internet issues on and off yesterday.

_Bangkok, Thailand, 2007_

The monsoon-quality rain beat down on the roof of the shady motel they were stuck in. The windows were open, letting water in—but it was too hot to close them. Sticky, tropical humidity was oppressive. Nat could hear Clint breathing behind her, the rhythm slow and steady enough he sounded asleep. It was too hot for her to settle, but he could sleep anywhere. 

Her mind would keep her awake even if the weather wasn't doing it. It had been an ugly, miserable day. At the briefing level, breaking up a child prostitution and trafficking ring sounded like the makings of a victorious day. Actually walking into a room full of little girls with fishnets and and lipstick and dead eyes was something else entirely. She wrestled the ghosts of her past, and Clint went outside and puked into the weeds. Once the rest of the team arrived to deal with the aftermath, they'd gone back to their hotel each intending to drink separately and sleep it off. It had taken him all of ten minutes to knock on her door.

After the amazing and shattering experience in Monte Carlo, they'd decided it had to stay there. It would be too confusing, too distracting. That lasted until the next mission, which involved them both nearly dying in a rather intense shootout. When they reached the safe-house they were so hopped up on adrenaline they had sex on the floor, and damaged about ten grand worth of gear in a desperate attempt to get it off. That was a one-time-thing, until the next mission culminated in a high speed car chase. She'd been in a dress for a mark, and that time they'd done it against a wall without taking anything off at all. But it was just adrenaline. Just impulse and instinct.

God knew how in hell they'd explain tonight.

"Can't sleep?" he murmured. Apparently he wasn't out after all.

"It's too hot," she said honestly. Then, because it was him and she had to say it to someone and he was the only one who'd understand, she added, "And today was too familiar."

He stroked her back. Her skin was warm and damp, but his touch felt good. "I know. It's why I came over. I thought you might need some company." She hadn't said anything at all when she opened the door, just let him inside and kissed him. He had been tender and gentle in a way that had reminded her far more of Monte Carlo than the subsequent encounters.

She considered rolling over, but maybe this conversation would be easier if she didn't look at him. "I did. I needed your company."

He was silent a moment before asking, "Is that a bad thing?"

It should be. Them having a relationship was still a terrible idea. She didn't think she even knew _how_ to be with someone that way. Working with him was simple. Fucking him was simple. Blending the two in some way was complicated. But she didn't know what she would have done without him tonight.

"This isn't a one night thing," she said softly.

She heard him sigh, and then he replied, "No. It's not. I don't know if it really ever has been." 

At that, she rolled over, tucking an arm under her head to look at him, She'd changed her mind, she needed to be able to read his face for this. "What are we?"

"I don't know. But it seems to. . .work." 

It did work. _They_ worked. But the whole thing seemed like the first steps of something huge and frightening. She didn't want to lose him, but she didn't know how to handle whatever it was he meant to her. "It seems like we should have. . .rules," she said, almost hesitant. "So we know where we stand."

"Such as, 'this is not the beginning of a romance'?"

She smiled a little. "'There will be no flowers or Valentine cards.'"

He reached out and wound a lock of hair around his fingers. "It stays in the field."

That was a good one, actually. She flattened a palm on his chest. "You can be with other women. I promise they won't end up in an unmarked grave somewhere in the Mojave."

Clint laughed out loud. "That's a good one. Likewise."

He remained the only man she wanted to sleep with for her own sake. That seemed a little too intense to mention, so she deflected with a joke. "I would think if I was with another woman you'd want to know about it. Possibly get a good seat."

"As long as you wouldn't find that tawdry." He looked at her seriously. "This is mutual. If you ever want to stop, we stop. I only want you if you want it—and trust me, I can tell."

She nodded. "Likewise. I don't want you to think you need to stay with me because I need you. You aren't bound to me."

"But it is all right to need each other," he said after a moment, his voice quiet.

That was, essentially, what the whole thing was about, really. She slid her hand up to touch his face. "We keep it between us. I don't want Fury refusing to team us 'for our own good.'"

"He'd do that too." He rolled onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head. "Anyone who knows could use it against us."

"Well, if there were ever two people who could keep a secret like this, it's us."

He looked over at her, and sighed. "Been a very long time since I had a weakness."

Which, once you boiled it down to basics, was what they already were to each other. She was fairly certain that either of them would drop all their training if anything were to harm the other. "I've never been allowed a weakness." She wanted to hold his hand, but it was tucked under his head, so she curled her fingers over his hip instead. "If I was at my old job they would tell me to kill you. As a lesson."

"Your old job was really fucked up." As she watched, he unfolded one of his hands and brought it down to take hers. She thought sometimes he could read her mind.

"You have no idea," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"If you ever want to talk about it. . ." he offered.

"I do not," she said, voice sharper than she'd intended. Especially not today, with images of the little girls in that warehouse still in her head. 

"Just thought I'd offer. Sometimes getting things out can help."

"It's in the past. It's better forgotten." 

He reached up to stroke damp hair off her forehead. "I know that can be easier said than done."

She sighed and shifted, resting her forehead on his shoulder. She wanted to wrap herself around him properly, but it was too hot. "You make it easier," she admitted. Being with him settled things inside her that sometimes threatened to tear her apart. It wasn't even the sex, though that helped. It was his calm, quiet manner. The way he insisted on touching her when everyone else was afraid to. The way he saw things differently and helped her see all the angles. She would have run a long time ago if not for him.

"I'm here," he said quietly. "No matter what."

"Thank you," she whispered. Then tipped her head up to kiss him. 

Both arms came around her, and he hauled her on top of him. "Since we're not sleeping. . ."

She grinned, bracing herself above him. "Why Agent Barton, what did you have in mind?"

*

_Washington DC, 2012_

There was the barest hint of light in the sky when Clint woke up. He wasn't entirely sure if it was dawn or dusk. He was alone in Nat's living room, and even more sore than he'd been yesterday. A quick glance around for a clock confirmed it was dawn. Which meant he'd slept fifteen or sixteen hours. He glanced over at Nat's cracked bedroom door. She'd be up soon, she was always up with the sun.

He tipped his head back on the couch - it was really comfortable - and tried to remember where the bottle of Vicodin had ended up. He was still mentally cataloging his aches and pains when he heard her footsteps in the other room and the faint shushing noise of her door opening. When he opened his eyes she was in the doorway, in a grey night gown and lavender robe, arms crossed, watching him. She smiled a little when she saw him looking. "Sleep well?" he asked her.

"I did. I took more Vicodin." She came closer, bare feet almost silent on the wood floor. "How about you?"

"If I dreamed, I don't remember it." He smiled at her. "This is a very comfortable couch." He struggled to sit up and grimaced as pain shot through his ribs. "I'm getting old."

"You were always old," she told him. She leaned over the back of the couch. "You want something to eat? Coffee, painkillers and breakfast meats?"

"You are a goddess among women."

Smiling, she patted his head and shoved herself up right. "That's actually true," she said casually, wandering towards the kitchen. "There's a small village in Latvia with a shrine to me."

He somehow managed to get the couch un-reclined so he could sit up and put some clothes on. Today he was going to have to go to his place and get some stuff. If he was staying here, of course. He supposed he could just go home. He probably should. But he didn't want to be alone. And he didn't think she did either. 

After a detour in the bathroom to splash water on his face he followed her to the kitchen. She'd turned what was supposed to be a dining area into an odd little library/ study, but the kitchen had a small counter with stools. He perched on one to watch her cook bacon and fry eggs. The coffee pot dinged and he forced himself to stand again and pour them each a cup, dumping fake sugar into hers before putting it by her elbow. She glanced over and murmured her thanks before picking it up.

Coffee was really quite life affirming. "Did you see where my bottle went last night?"

She tipped her head back. "I think it's in with your bag of clothes. I kept it separate from mine. If you can't find it there's Percocet and oxy in the medicine cabinet."

"Quite the stash," he commented. Though maybe something stronger wasn't the worst idea ever.

"I never finish the bottles when I get them. So I keep them for rainy day. There's probably only two of three of any one of them. But it'll get you through today." She glanced over at him. "What do you want to do today?"

"I need to get some things from my apartment." He looked up at her, questioning. Just in case she wanted him to go.

"Good idea." She turned back to her bacon. "You’d stretch my pants out all to hell if you borrowed them."

"After that, I don't know. Your couch is really tempting."

She piled bacon on a plate and set it aside, then did the same with the eggs. After turning off the stove she brought both plates and a fistful of utensils over to him and sat in the other stool. "I don't think watching the news is helpful," she said cautiously.

He supposed that depended on one's agenda. "Does it bother you?"

"I tend to avoid news reports of things I've been involved in." As she spoke she picked up a piece of bacon and tore off a bit to pop in her mouth. "I was there. And I don't care to hear the opinions of those who weren't."

"I'm just trying to understand it. The scale and scope of what happened." And perhaps, he also felt like he owed the victims an audience.

She chewed her bacon with extreme prejudice a moment. "Can we agree to a time limit? There's understanding scope and then there's wallowing."

Clint made a face. "I am not wallowing."

"I didn't say you were. I said there was potential for it."

He ate his breakfast for a little bit. "I'm not sure you can understand."

She'd been about to sip her coffee, but put the mug down with a little clink. "I've been responsible for a lot of innocent deaths, Clint."

He wanted to tell her this was different, but that we be just being contrary for the sake of it. "And you just put it away?"

"I put it in my ledger, but I know you don't put much stock in that. And that doesn't have to be the way you do it." She shook her head sharply and blew out a breath. "I'm trying to help you. Trying to make this easier for you than it was for me. But you've never done things the way I do. So. . . I don't know. Maybe watching will make it better for you. I'm just. . . trying to help."

"I know you are," he said. "I don't think it makes it better. I just feel like I owe. . .someone. That I should have to face it. I honestly do not understand why no one has come with handcuffs, but if they're not going to I don't think I should be sitting around watching funny movies."

She poked at her eggs a moment, runny yolk spreading across the plate. He didn't know why she hadn't gotten salmonella a dozen times over, but she appeared to be able to eat anything. "Maybe that's your ledger," she finally said, voice quiet and thoughtful. 

"The news footage?"

"Paying witness. It's how we do everything isn't it?" She met his gaze, picking up her coffee again. "You go high to get the big picture and I get on the ground. You want to see the scope and I have my list of sins. It makes sense, in a weird way."

That. . . actually did make sense. He considered himself kind of a solitary person. He didn't need company or companionship. He preferred his perches. But his life really was better when she was around. "Thank you," he said.

She smiled and gave a little nod. "Whatever you need."

"What about you?" he asked.

Her brows went up over her mug. "What about me?"

He met her eyes. "What do you need?"

Nervous fingers fidgeted her coffee cup, then she looked away, off into the middle distance. _"I'm compromised,"_ she'd said. She'd talked to Loki to try to get information and something had shaken her. It was probably going to take a vat of vodka and a crow bar to get out of her what it was, but he knew the signs. 

"I don't know yet," she finally said. "I haven't examined it yet. Haven't had time. Or focus." She looked into her coffee. "Company is nice."

He sighed. "Examining it is hard."

"Yes. But necessary. It lessens the opportunity for land mines later. You never know when it will hit you later."

"I'll be here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." He was certain she knew him well enough to be concerned about that. It was tempting. Very tempting. Go be in the middle of nowhere where he didn't know anyone. And just wait, he supposed, for it to eat him alive.

She took her plate to the sink and rinsed it. "So do I get to see your bachelor pad? Or is it remaining secret?"

"I don't know, are you going to let me share a bed with you tonight?"

The look she gave him heated his blood. "If you don't fall asleep on the couch again. You're worth two of me, Clint, I wasn't hauling your ass to bed."

He stood up and walked over there, caging her against the sink with his body while he dropped his plate in the basin. "You could have woken me up."

"You needed your rest," she told him with a little flutter of her lashes.

He pressed a kiss just under her ear. "Sleep is overrated."

Her hands slid up his chest, curling over his shoulders. "That's debatable." She nuzzled at his jaw. "You're wide awake now, though."

"That I am." He untied the belt of her robe so he could slide his hands beneath. Last night had been quick, and necessary, and more emotionally wrought than he expected-- not that he wanted to think about that part right now. A more leisurely morning adventure sounded very appealing. A quick skim of his hands told him she was naked under the gown. Nat turned into a regular nudist when she was home, apparently.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave a little hop, sitting on the edge of the sink. Then she drew him closer and kissed him, mouth warm and sweet from her coffee. The kiss was deep and intense. They had energy they hadn't the night before. He hiked the nightgown up over her hips, and ran his hands up the inside of her thighs. He heard her suck in a breath, opening wide for him. His hands roamed higher, and she muttered something into his mouth. It might have been his name, or a curse, or some other language. But it was urgent and needy and sent lust shooting through him. She was wet, and he easily sunk his fingers into her, earning himself a gasp. "Maybe this is what we should do with our leave."

"Your idea has merit," she whispered, hips rocking a little as he moved his fingers. "This apartment is previously unsullied." Her nails sank into his shoulders when he turned his wrist so he could brush her clit with his thumb. He kissed her again, and could taste her desperation. He always wondered if the fact that she loved sex made her good at her job. . . or if it was just like this with them, and the rest was just an act. 

"Hide in the apartment and fuck all day," he murmured against her mouth.

She nipped at his lower lip lightly. "I could be convinced." He pressed harder against her, crooking his fingers inside her. Her head tipped back and he reached behind her to help support her so she didn't go toppling back into the sink. He pressed his lips over her pulse and felt it pounding under her skin.

Her nails dug in again and she breathed, "Yes," just as her body started to tighten around his intruding fingers. She made a very gratifying sound, and he felt her shake as she came. Probably involuntarily, she raised her knee up—and it banged right into his broken ribs.

For a moment he quite literally saw stars, and stumbled back. Jesus, fuck, that hurt. Possibly more than the original break.

Nat blinked at him in confusion a moment, then her mouth opened in a little 'o' of realization. "Oh, God, I'm sorry." He just held up his hand, because speaking really wasn't happening. Now he really wished he'd taken those pain pills.

She hopped off the counter and started to go to him, then brought herself up short. "I'll get the Percocet. Try to make it to the couch and sit."

He grit his teeth, knowing he would feel better if he would just breathe. "I'm all right," he ground out.

"Bullshit," she said, carefully walking past him so as not to brush against his side. He winced, and then followed her orders to go back to the couch. Passing out in the kitchen would be very, very undignified.

She appeared a moment later with his cup of coffee and pill. She sank down next to him as he swallowed it. "I'm really sorry."

He smiled, and managed to take breath. "Well. Your mind was elsewhere."

His smile seemed to reassure her and she returned it, brushing his hair off his forehead. "Still. Kind of a rude ending to the fun."

He caught her hand, and turned his face to kiss her palm. "We have time."

She wrapped her fingers around his, holding his hand a moment. "We do." She leaned over and kissed his brow. "You want to watch some TV while I shower and get dressed? Let the Percocet kick in."

He wanted to _join_ her in that shower, but his ribs did not approve. He nodded instead. She dropped one more kiss on him as she got up and sauntered towards the bedroom.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Nat discusses her past with the KGB and the Red Room in this chapter. There are references to childhood hunger, abuse, brainwashing. Language is deliberately vague but be aware.

_London, 2008_

It was so nice when everything went according to plan. No one got shot. There were no high speed chases through the streets of London. Nat wasn't even going to need to get anything dry cleaned. It had been in and out and clean. It was rare enough that it felt like a special occasion.

Clint had taken her out to a pub. It wasn't exactly the Ritz, but the beer was good and she discovered something called Yorkshire pudding that might be her new favorite thing.

"Pub food, I think, is the best part of British cuisine." Clint was eating something covered in mashed potatoes and cheese, which was a very him sort of food.

"It's very Russian," she told him, digging into her roast beef. "Meat and root vegetables. Comes from not having any sun."

"You'll have to make me Russian food one of these days." A hilarious statement if ever there was one. Nat did not cook.

She gave him a look as she chewed. "Next time we are in New York I will _order_ you some Russian food, _da_?"

He grinned at her. "I can live with that."

They ate mostly in silence. He half turned to watch the soccer game on the TV over the bar. Nat pulled out her phone to see if they had new orders or were actually going to have the whole night to themselves in their rather nice hotel in town.

Then she heard a murmur of Russian over her shoulder and recognition poured ice water in her veins. She turned slowly and spotted a pale blonde head and bright blue eyes in a booth behind them. The woman was chatting with a dark skinned man in a bespoke suit. For an instant, the blue eyes met Nat's and there was a faint flicker of recognition, then a moment of fear.

Nat dropped her fork and shifted her grip on her knife so she could use it as a weapon if needed. She saw Clint move out of the corner of her eye, reaching up to slide down the zipper of his sweatshirt so he could reach the weapon holstered under his arm. He followed her gaze, and one eyebrow went up.

She gave her head a little shake and met the blonde's eyes again. She was gripping her wine glass very tightly. Nat gave her the same head shake and she turned back to her mark but still held the glass. Nat didn't take her eyes off her, but said very softly to Clint, "Get up. Go pay the bill. I will meet you outside. Don't get within arm's reach of her."

He nodded, and stood. He walked with his hand flattened on his abdomen like he had indigestion. It looked innocent, but she knew he could draw and hit his target almost before anyone saw him move. 

The blonde was still focusing on her mark. For an instant Nat thought about trying to get a message to her. _There's a way out. It's not perfect, but it's better. I can help you._ But the blonde looked neither frightened nor desperate enough to listen. And she didn't want any bloodshed today.

 So she slid slowly out of her booth and went for the door, taking the long way around the bar to avoid getting in the blonde's kill zone.

Once on the street she walked to the alley nearby and leaned on the wall, crouching and bending her head down so she wouldn't pass out or vomit. Clint slipped into the alley and stood between her and its mouth. "Are you hit?" he asked.

She shook her head sharply and closed her eyes, taking deep breaths. "I need a minute."

"Were you followed?"

"No," she whispered. "No. She's busy with her mark." Nat straightened and scrubbed her hands over her face. "She won't follow us." She blew out a breath. "Is there a liquor store near here?"

He turned to face her fully. " _What_ just happened?"

Oh, how she didn't want to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever. Certainly not sober. But he wasn't going to let her out of the alley without an answer. "Her name is Ekaterina. She's two years younger than me and used to sleep in the bed next to mine." She rallied her strength and met his eyes. "She's another Widow."

He was still for a moment. "Do you want me to go back and get her?"

Instinctively, she reached out an grabbed his arm. "No. She won't go with you and she'll just try to hurt you if you blow her cover. Let's just go." Then, because she knew he couldn't resist it when she asked for things, she added, "Please."

"All right." He put his arm around her and led her out of the alley. As they walked down the street, he asked, "Regular bottle or alcoholic bottle?"

She tucked into his side, as much for her own sake as that of a cover. "Alcoholic," she said. "Vodka. Cheap is fine." It could be paint thinner for all she cared.

"I don't do cheap booze," he replied, sounding mildly offended. He detoured them into a liquor store, and they came out a few minutes later with a "family" sized bottle of Stoli. He kept his arm slung around her as they walked to their hotel, for all the world a young couple out for a stroll. Nat was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and looking forward to how blindingly drunk she was going to get once they were back in the hotel.

He took her to his room, and opened the door. She really should go to hers, but she appreciated not having to operate the key. She shed the light jacket she was wearing, took the bottle from him and sat on the bed to work on the cap. Clint was probably going to start asking questions soon and she really wanted to have a readable BAC before he did so.

He went into the bathroom, and came back with two glasses. He held one out to her. "Don't drink from the bottle," he said gruffly.

Apparently, they were sharing. She took the glass and poured several glugs of the alcohol into it before filling his. The vodka burned all the way down to her stomach, the heat spreading out. Nat had the alcohol tolerance of a man three times her size, but the first swallow was always the best. 

He sat on the floor beside the bed, elbows braced on his knees, so he was very near her, but didn't actually touch her, and didn't ask her to make eye contact. She finished the glass she had and reached out for the bottle to refill it. When he still didn't say anything she sighed. "I taught her how to bind broken toes to each other. To help them heal." She took a long drink. "Friendship wasn't allowed. They'd separate us if they thought we were becoming close. But. . . cooperation between older and younger was permitted. It took a burden off the handlers."

"Military's like that too. Keep an eye on the new guy."

"She was so skinny when she came," Nat said softly, looking into her glass. "We were all skinny when we came. The older ones would tell the little ones all about the food we got at breakfast and dinner, to help them not be scared. When their training would start they would cry sometimes, in the dorm. And we would remind them that at least here we were fed. Everyday, no matter what. As if that made it all right."

She could see him shake his head a little, as if he had no idea what to say. Which he probably didn't. Talking was more her thing than his. But he did hold up the vodka bottle. She held her glass down for him to splash some into it. 

He had asked her, in the past, if she wanted to talk about it. Swore he would listen if she did. She had always said no. Because she didn't want to open those old wounds, wanted to only focus on what was in front of her. Especially when she was with him. But lately, she'd had another reason not to tell him everything. "It would make you angry," she said softly. "If I told you what they did to us. To me. You'd be angry and there wouldn't be anyone for you to take it out on."

"Someday there might be. I'm a sniper," he said after a moment. "I can wait a long, long time."

She laughed a little at that, shaking her head. She thought about old wounds that didn't heal properly, with infections that needed to be cleaned out. "Are you sure?" she asked, giving him one last out.

He turned, just enough to look up at her and make an exasperated face.

Right. Of course. Mr. Stoic can handle it just fine. She sighed and slid off the bed, tucking her legs under her as she settled on the floor next to him, carefully not touching him. If she touched him she'd want to crawl in his lap, fall into him and ask him to make it all better. And she'd never get the nerve to talk about it again.

She opened her mouth and let it all come out. She told him about the physical training, which wasn't that bad. Girls got hurt, but no worse than they might have on a farm or in a factory. The mental training was worse. The drugs. The lies that seemed like truth. She was told that her parents no longer wanted her. That Russia was her only mother now. Russia was all that mattered.

She told him about the man she'd been sent to kill when she was nine years old. He had scoffed a bit, saying she was a little old, but she'd smiled coyly and climbed in his lap the way her handlers had told her to and it had changed his mind. He'd done little more than kiss her before she'd cut his throat and slipped out a window, walking to the rendezvous point covered in blood. They'd let her have a hot bath and a piece of cake when she'd gotten back to the complex, rewards for a job well done.

He refilled her glass when it got low but after a while she stopped drinking from it. She'd been numb for so much of her life. Sometimes a little pain was better.

"Most of the missions when we were little weren't like that. Usually we were bait to get a mark where someone else could kill them. The rest of it didn't start till puberty. Most men need at least a suggestion of breasts before they look. When your period started you were taken out of the dorm with the other girls, given your own room. Then you start to learn about seduction. Sex. How to manipulate a situation to your advantage. And to be safe they cut your tubes." She drew her finger low across her abdomen, above the scar he'd noticed the first night they were together. "No pregnancy allowed."

He didn't say anything, but he drank a swig of the vodka right from the bottle. Then he reached out and touched the top of her foot with two fingers. Her breath came out in a rush, but she grit her teeth and continued, staring at those fingers. She told him about the first mission she'd gone on after puberty. How she'd been scared and confused and cried a little when she got back and had been sent for more conditioning. She tried to tell him about the Red Room but her memories of that place were fractured and unreliable.

 She told him about the girls who never came back from missions. Of the ones that came back with dead eyes and broken spirits. They had praised her for being strong. For not shattering the way the others did, even though she knew she'd broken a long time ago.

When she was done she felt exhausted and achey. As if she'd been hollowed out. She didn't know if anything was better. If she'd wake up in the morning healed and whole. She just knew it was out now. That someone other than she knew. Maybe that would be enough.

After a moment of silence, he moved, reaching over and very gently pulling her into his lap. He kissed her temple and whispered, "I'm sorry they hurt you."

Her breath came out on a sob. She wrapped her arms over his, holding it to her tightly. She didn't want to cry, didn't think there was anything left in her to cry, but the tears came anyway, hot and stinging. He rocked her and rubbed her back, but he didn't shush her. He just let her get it out. It was a strange, impossible feeling—but she felt safe.

It was late. She had talked a very long time. Long enough for the sun to fully set, for the room to go dark. She could hear, dimly, the sounds of the city outside. London was like New York or Paris, it was never truly asleep. She listened to the sounds of cars and people and the steady thump of Clint's heart until the tears tapered off and she actually, miraculously, felt a little better.

She used the hem of her shirt to dry her eyes and wipe he nose discreetly. Then she lifted her head, leaned back a little, and kissed him. She felt him shift without breaking the kiss, hooking his arm under her knees and scooping her up as he stood. He set her down on the bed, and then broke the kiss so he could peel her shirt up. He unbuttoned her jeans and said, "Lift." Though he seemed to be undressing her with more care than lust. She raised her hips and he slid the jeans down, dragging her plum colored panties - bought specifically for him to see though the oceans would rise before she'd admit it - down with them. It left her in her bra with a delicate, flimsy clasp and him fully dressed.

A psychiatrist would probably say this was unhealthy. The way they used sex to communicate. But there were things neither of them had words for. Things she need to hear in kisses and licks and strokes. Things she could only say in gasps and moans.

He reached up to touch the clasp of her bra, his eyes searching her face. "We can just sleep."

Nat didn't think she was capable of love. Not really, not the way most people defined it. Love required too much trust, too much dependance. Just. . . too much. But sometimes he said something, or did something and it stirred something inside her. Like plucking a string on a dusty violin. And she thought, _Maybe. Maybe this is as close as I'll come._ And it felt like it was enough.

She stretched her arms up over her head, spreading her hair out to tangle her fingers in it and arching her body taut like a bow. Like _his_ bow. "I don't want to sleep," she told him, voice hoarse with tears and talking. "I want you to remind me I'm not her anymore. I want to feel something that's mine, that they can't touch."

He snapped the clasp of her bra, just like she knew he would. "They will never touch you again," he whispered.

She whispered, "I know," and reached for him. Because he'd destroy him. With his nimble fingers and lethal grace. He'd kill them before they knew he was there. Before they could breathe the same air as her. It was a certainty that had become sunk in her bones. A fact that soothed her dreams on dark nights.

Getting his shirt off was harder than she expected because he was still wearing his holster. She had no idea why, nor did she really care, but their alchohol-dulled senses made it even more complicated. In the morning they were probably going to be amazed they didn't accidentally shoot themselves. He didn't seem to notice or care when she tossed the whole tangled mess over the edge of the bed—and she was pretty certain he'd never left his gun on the floor in the whole course of his life.

His shirt followed the holster and she slid her arms around him, hands flat to feel as much of his skin as possible. She pulled herself closer to him, pressing her breasts to his chest, her bra dangling off her arms. Her mouth found his, rough and demanding. Need pulsed through her, fueled by vodka and old hurts. 

This wasn't going to be one of those slow nights. They didn't have adrenaline, but they had something else. Something she had no interest in putting a name to. But she didn't want to play, or tease. She just wanted to feel him inside her. If only she could get his jeans off. The buttons had suddenly become as complicated as a Rubik’s cube.

She could hear him chuckle. "I got it, honey, I got it." Somehow, that tugged the strings again. Nobody had ever told her sex could involve laughter.

He brushed her hands away and she fell back on her elbows to watch him. She had seen countless men naked or near naked. Tall, short, thin, heavy. Muscled and flabby. Some had almost certainly been more attractive than Clint, objectively speaking. But to her he was beautiful. Every flex of muscle. Every scar.

The jeans went flying as he kicked them off. She was fairly certain she heard something clatter on the dresser. Then he was on the bed with her and she could wrap her arms and legs around him. She only had to lift up a little, and he filled her. She dug her nails into his back in reply, in encouragement. This was all she wanted. Just this. Just them.

He palmed her thigh, tugging it higher before drawing out and thrusting back in. It drove him deeper and she cried out, head falling back. They had taught her to be silent, not to draw attention, to focus on her mission. But Clint liked her noises, liked to know he was pleasing her, driving her mad. So with him, she could be loud. She could feel it all and cry it to the heavens.

She felt the press of his lips to her throat and shuddered. "Good," she murmured. "So good, Clint."

He nibbled on her ear and growled, "Tell me what you need."

 _You_ , she thought fiercely. She dug her hand in his hair, grown a little shaggy and overdue for a cut. She let him feel her nails on his scalp. "Hard," she told him, half gasp, half whisper. "Deep. Rough. I want to ache tomorrow and remember you. I want you to leave your mark on me." She arched into the weight of his body. "I know you won't hurt me."

She felt him shudder at her words. Good. She wanted him to feel what she did. And then he obeyed her command, slamming into her with enough force she slid on the sheets, and the mattress thumped into the nightstand. She begged him for more and he gave it. So much she had to let him go to brace her hands on the headboard above.

It was everything she'd wanted and more. It was pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. She danced that line and reveled in every sensation. Every sound he made. And when he sank his teeth into her shoulder in a love bite she knew would bruise it was the last thing she needed. She came hard, with a spasm that wracked her whole body and tore a breathy scream from her. As she drifted back down, she was inordinately pleased that he groaned when he came a few moments after her. He was quietest person she knew. 

That first night in Monte Carlo, she'd been so overwhelmed by what she'd felt, she'd very nearly cried. But she hadn't understood it, not really. Not just the pleasure, but the connection. He lifted his head and looked down at her. She could see it reflected back in his eyes. All the things neither of them could say. She touched his face, ran her thumb across his cheek, then lifted her head to give him a soft, almost chaste kiss. A silent thank you for everything he had done for her.

He smiled, like he understood. He usually did. Then he rolled off her and pulled the blankets around them. He pulled her back against his chest and spooned them together. "Feel better?" he asked quietly. 

She pressed back into him with a soft sigh. "Yes," she whispered, a little surprised. Russia and the program and the Red Room felt very far away. They'd never be gone, she was who she was, but she was pushing them aside. Filling in new memories, new emotion. And, she thought, now that she'd told him about it, they seemed a little smaller.

"Good," he replied, kissing her hair. His arm tightened around her waist. "I gotcha."

"I know." She covered his hand with hers, weaving their fingers together. "Thank you."

"Well. What are partners for?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. The last full week before Christmas can be a little hectic. Posting schedule next week might be off, but I will make sure to get a chapter of everything I owe you up.
> 
> Please check in on Christmas for a special one-off set in this universe.

_2012_

After New York, Fury had given them four weeks off. They spent most of it Natasha's apartment, and much of that time in bed (figuratively, anyway). The did a couple of tourist things in DC, because you never explore your own city. They went to the beach in Virginia, though the water was still a little chilly. The decompressed in their own way, though they didn't talk about the battle much. What really was there to say? It was easier, and felt better, to just enjoy the time they had.

Then they went back to work. Clint had exactly one psych eval, which he passed. He claimed he felt fine. He was very good at suppressing things. He didn't tell anyone about the nightmares, the ones that had started after he'd gone back to his apartment. After their hiatus had ended. He hadn't even told Nat.

Missions were a bit of a salvation. They didn't seem to come as much or has harshly when she slept next to him. He was very annoyed when they were flown in for their newest mission and discovered their holding location was a fully staffed SHIELD base. Separate quarters, and too many cameras to sneak around.

They sat next to each other at the mission debrief; pictures of professional boredom. Some tin-pot dictator had finally pissed off enough of the populace to cause rioting. It had been going on over a week, with a lot of innocent people injured or dead, no progress in taking down said dictator and no good way for the US military to get involved without making it a _thing_.

So it was up to him and Nat to go in, solve the problem and, if possible, open up a way for the rioters to get in and take credit for it all. It had been a while since they'd had a proper, straight forward assassination. Nat'd be happy.

"Wheels up at 0300," Clint muttered as the filed out. "There's no decency left."

"How did someone who wasn't a morning person get this job?" she asked him, voice teasing. Nat was a morning person. Worse, she was a morning person who didn't need very much sleep. It was doubly obnoxious.

"I have a very unique skill set," he said with a grin.

"I hear you have several," she told him softly.

That made him smile, and then he sighed. "Even I cannot move stealthily enough for this place."

She waved the folder at him. "You didn't read to to the end. We go to a safehouse afterwards in case of pursuit. Collection's not till tomorrow night."

He took the folder and flipped through. "Alone?"

"Yes. We split into three groups. Us, and two distraction teams. Play our cards right and we'll get almost a whole day of privacy."

That would probably give him time to sleep. Which made just staying up tonight, rather than sleeping, appealing. Better than grogginess, or bad dreams. "That does improve my mood."

"I thought it might." She glanced around, but there was too many people, too many cameras. So she just gave him a little smile. "I'll see you on the plane."

He inclined his head, and watched her saunter off. It was as enjoyable a sight as ever.

Sure enough she was bright eyed and bushy tailed on the transport. He was getting by on coffee and the natural high that came before a mission. They dropped their distraction teams off along the compound walls and listened to the rattle of gun fire. The guards cleared out to focus on the intruders and he and Nat dropped down right next to the hideout's back door.

"Intel didn't mention a bunker or safe room," Nat said. "But he's got to have one."

"Nah," Clint said with surprising certainty. "He won't want to hide. He'll be somewhere reveling in his glory."

She squinted up at the house thoughtfully. "Room in front with the biggest windows, then?"

"That would be my guess." He slung his bow over his shoulder. "I'm going up. You go around?"

She fiddled with her gauntlets a moment, then nodded. "See you up there." She blew him a kiss before disappearing into the shadows of the building. He grinned a little, and started climbing.

They found him right where he expected. He was sitting around it what looked like a smoking jacket, watching rioting on television, and maybe keeping an eye on the fighting happening at the gate of the compound. It was a big, open, elegantly appointed living room. Clint found himself a place in the ceilings decorative rafters and watched for Nat to come in through one of the doors.

The more he watched the man, the more annoyed he felt. Did this man think he was so untouchable that he didn't have to hide from rioters at his doorstep? The way he was loitering in front of the windows Clint could have taken him out without them ever having to enter the compound. Of course, a sniper shot with that level of skill would look damn suspicious in a rathole place such as this.

He was there a few minutes when he heard a ruckus outside the main door. It was eventually thrown open, the body of a bodyguard sliding across the shiny marble floor. Nat stepped over it on her way inside. The asshole in the smoking jacket actually smiled when he saw her. "I've been expecting you."

She arched a brow and smiled in the slightly off way she had when she wanted to creep out a mark. "I saw your welcoming committee."

"Your government has no right to interfere with my country's affairs."

"Yeah, well, if someone doesn't interfere there's not gonna be much of a country left, so..." She shrugged. "Was it so hard to just step down? Retire to the country?"

"Why would I step down? My people love me."

"The violent rioting would indicate otherwise." She fidgeted with her gauntlets and again and Clint could see them light up red. "I can see you aren't going to be reasonable about this and I have things to do so let's get on with this."

He finally turned so Clint could see his face. He was younger than expected—he didn't know why he expected evil people to be old and gnarled, as he certainly knew better, but he was surprised nonetheless. He was young, and surprisingly good looking. He gave Natasha a slow, dangerous smile, dressed with just a touch of madness. And then he laughed.

Clint couldn't explain what came over him just then. It made no sense, but he had a sudden, overwhelming urge to punch the smile off the man's face. In defiance of plans, protocol, sense, and possibly sanity, he dropped down off the rafters to the floor, and slammed his fist right into the target's teeth.

"Clint!" Jesus, he must have scared her, she never used his name in the field. You never knew who might be listening on the comms. He heard her sprint the last few feet to him, then she grabbed his arm. He hadn't realized he'd still been throwing punches until she stopped him.

The target had, he realized, long crumpled to the ground. Clint looked from the bloody face down to his own bloody knuckles in surprise. He jumped up and shook her off. "Jesus," he muttered, not really sure _what_ the hell had just happened.

The target groaned and Nat pulled out her sidearm, putting three bullets into him in rapid succession. She holstered the weapon and kicked over the guy's chair and smashed the TV screen with her elbow, making a show of trashing the place. "Target is down," she said into her wrist. "Give us three and blow the doors."

She dropped her hand and looked at Clint. "You okay to move?"

"I'm fine," he snapped. _Jesus, Barton, get it together._ "Now it looks like the rioters got him."

"Right," she said, voice dripping in sarcasm. "Totally like we planned it." She pointed to the door like an impatient mother. "Getaway car. Now."

He didn't say anything because he didn't want to fight with her. All he wanted was a shower and some sleep. So he went in the direction she pointed. They made their way through the palace the way she'd come in, weaving around the bodies of the guards she'd dispatched.  
 The B team had left them a Jeep right where they were supposed to. Nat climbed in the driver's side and turned the engine over as he threw himself into the passenger's. They peeled out of the compound to the sound of the front doors being blown open.

He said nothing, and she said nothing, and they drove in silence. He tipped his head back and longed for a drink. A whole lot of drink. Maybe enough to just black out.

It was possible he slept a bit, because before he knew it they were entering a a medium sized city and dawn was starting to lighten the sky. Nat drove underneath a deserted looking apartment complex and turned the engine off. She sat a moment, staring straight through the now dusty window. "Unit 212," she said finally. "I need to ditch the car."

He usually did that, but she had a death grip on the wheel. "Fine," he said, climbing out. She waited till he'd walked to the stair well, where he stopped to wait for her to go. She peeled out of the lot with a wee bit too much force. He jerked the door to the stairs open and started up.

It was a crappy place, with even crappier furniture, and looked like it could use a good cleaning. Someone had been here in advance, though, because there were some provisions, the water was on, and the heat worked. No booze, though. SHIELD spent too much time listening to the puritanical American government. He'd done an Op once with French Special Forces. Those guys knew how to put it away. The damn safehouse had wine in it, too.

Nat was gone longer than he expected for a simple car drop. He was starting to wonder if he needed to go find her or if she'd be even more pissed if he did so when the door opened and she came in. She was dustier than she'd been when she left and was holding a large bottle of tequila. She walked to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses, came back out to sit on the shitty couch, put the bottle on the floor and looked at him expectantly.

He reached for the bottle and saw her look in askance at his split knuckles. He probably should have cleaned them up. Instead, he poured two glasses. "You don't even like tequila." And who knew what passed for tequila in the ass-end of central Asia anyway.

"You don't like vodka all that much," she said, sounding calmer than she had when she left. "Person having a bad day gets to pick the booze."

It burned the whole way down, too. "Sorry," he said finally. "I got carried away."

"You don't _get_ carried away. You don't jump from your perch to punch a guy for no reason. You certainly don’t continue to punch him until he's a bloody pulp and your knuckles are split." She sipped her tequila and winced. "Talk to me," she added softly.

He sighed. "I don't know. Something about his smile, his laugh. I can't explain it." He rubbed his eyes. "I didn't sleep last night," he offered, like she would accept that as an explanation.

She was quiet a moment. "Do you ever sleep when we're apart?"

He didn't want to answer her. He didn't want to worry her. But he finally said, "Not very well."

The bottle clinked against his glass as she refilled it. "He sounded like Loki," she told him. "The attitude, the laugh. Even the smile. It reminded me of him I'm sure it hit you the same way." She rolled her glass between her hands. "You've held it in a long time. I didn't push because I know you need to process. You don't deal with things they way I do. But I'm starting to worry you aren't dealing with it at all."

He looked up at the ceiling, and then back at his glass. "I keep thinking maybe I'd feel better if you all had let me kill him."

"Maybe. Or maybe you'd still be angry without anything to take it out on." She ducked her head, trying to catch his eye. "Death takes a second, Clint. It isn't a balance for days of torture."

He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to see understanding. "There wasn't any torture," he said after a moment. "Not a scratch on me."

"You and I both know you don't have to lay a _finger_ on a person to torture them. He got in your head. He made you do things you would never have done. He found all your soft spots and exploited them. He _hurt_ you, Clint."

The interrogation had been the worst. _Tell me about Fury's team._ They'd just been questions, no coercion, but it wasn't like he could choose not to answer—or was even really aware that he didn't want to. It was tactical, until it had gotten to her. It had been the first time he felt something in his gut, some buried instinct that said this was _wrong_. 

Loki and his amused, smug smile. _You're in love with her, aren't you?_

He scrubbed his eyes. Of all the flashbacks in the world it was not the time for this one. He clenched his fists because it made them hurt, and pain grounded him. He took another drink of the tequila.

_You'll kill her for me, won't you?_

Her small, cool hands reached out and curled over his wrists, carefully avoiding his injuries. "Clint, I've told you things I would never tell another living soul. Please talk to me."

He took a shuddery breath, not really sure what to say. "I don't know how to make it stop."

"Make what stop?"

"Everything. Him. Sometimes I think I hear his voice in crowds. I close my eyes at night and I see everything through a blue haze. I hear something or see something and suddenly he's got me again. I gave him intel, I gave him strategy, I gave him cover—he wouldn't have gotten that fucking tesseract past Hill in the parking lot, let alone to New York. He never could have done any of it. All that blood is on my hands, Nat. It has to be."

She was silent. He didn't risk a look at her face, didn't want to read whatever she was thinking there. Very slowly, she slid her hands down a little, until she could smear some of the blood from his knuckles onto her palms. "Sao Paulo. The orphanage. Cairo. Munich. Individuals I can't count. I did it all with far less coercion than he had you under. If that blood is on your hands than all of that is on mine. And he's right, it's too much red to wipe out. Except what about all the people who didn't die? The bus we evacuated, the civilians we protected. The buildings that didn't come down? Because you were there to see from a perch and I was there to close a portal." She took his hands, ever so gently. "It wasn't about you. It was about him and his ego and madness. He's not coming back for you. He'll never touch you again. Don't let what _he did_ define you."

He looked down at their hands. The silence just stretched. Then finally he said, "I think sometimes I shouldn't have survived the battle." His voice didn't really even sound like his own when he said it. He supposed giving voice to one's darkest thoughts could be like that.

"I saw you in that window," she said softly. "At the end of the battle." Of course she had. Nat always saw more than she let on." What stopped you?"

He couldn't say it. It was too much. It would make her uncomfortable.

_Well, isn't that useful. Is it returned?_

At the time, in the blue haze, he'd had no idea why answering felt painful. _No._

She was sitting there patiently, rubbing his arm. She would wait forever if she had to. So he sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. "You."

There was a pause, when she seemed to go utterly still. Then she leaned forward and rested her forehead on his. "There was a moment, when I was fighting on the ground. One of the flipped me onto a car. Jarred my whole body, knocked the breath out of me. For a second I just wanted to lay there. Give up. Then I saw you. Up on your roof. Heard you snarking with Stark. And I got up again. Because I wanted to touch you again."

He felt himself shake, and he pulled her into his lap so he could hold her, so he could bury his face in her neck. If she'd died that day, he didn't think he'd care what happened to him. It wouldn't matter.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, cradling his head against her. "It's all right to need each other," she whispered. His arms tightened, and he nodded, because he couldn't speak. She rocked him gently, stroking his hair and pressing little kisses into it. He didn't know how long they sat there, but the room had started to brighten with morning light when she broke the silence again. "Why don't we shower? Then I can bandage your hand and you can sleep."

He took a breath and nodded. He didn't want to let her go, but she didn't seem to be asking him to.

Very slowly, she eased off his lap and wrapped her hands around his bicep. He let her guide him into the bathroom. She released him only long enough to turn the water on in the shower so it could warm up. Then she moved back to him to start carefully undressing him. He was still wearing his gear, so there were a lot of buckles and snaps. "He told me I had to kill you."

"He told me you would," she said quietly. She was stacking all of his stuff by the door, as far from the shower as possible. She carefully unfastened the brace on his wrist, gingerly sliding it over his injured fingers.

He wasn't entirely sure why he was telling her all this. Maybe just in case there was some chance saying it, sharing it, would help. Sunshine was the best disinfectant and all. "It was the first thing that felt wrong."

She had crouched to untie and loosen his boots. "Fury went on the comm when they figured out where you were headed. Thor had just distracted Hulk from me and I was. . . taking a minute. No one responded and I knew I had to get up. That if there was anyone who could stop you it was me." She slowly got to her feet and looked at his face. "I still think something in you was holding back. You had the advantage at least twice and didn't take it."

"The whole thing felt wrong. I didn't know why. But I'm sure that slowed me down. Hesitation can be fatal." He sighed. "It's just. . . that's the only thing that got me. The only thing my subconscious fought. Not sharing classified secrets, not taking down a helicarrier, not welcoming an alien invasion."

Her fingers curled under the hem of his shirt and he lifted his arms for she could tug it up and off. "We have been each other's weakness a long time," she said solemnly. "We know that. Apparently, whatever this is between is is bone deep." She flattened a palm on his chest. "My loyalties switched a long time ago."

"I was thinking less about loyalty and more about human decency."

She sighed softly. "He took away the part of you that questions things. Those were your orders, so you completed them. We do things that some people would consider against the rules of human decency all the time. We killed an unarmed man this morning. Sure, he was a shithead with who knows how many deaths on his hands, but we only know that because we have the ability to ask. To care. I don't know how many people I killed for the KGB deserved it. I don't know if _any_ of them did. Because I was not allowed to ask."

"I'm having a lot of trouble living with that, I guess." He scrubbed his eyes again. The shower was billowing very tempting steam. He reached for the zipper on her catsuit. She stayed still while he took it all the way down to the bottom. He watched her slowly peel it off, followed by the tank top, bra and panties before working on his own slacks.

Leaving him to that, she stepped into the spray of the water and tipped her head back. He moved the curtain so he could climb in behind her. There wasn't any soap or shampoo in there, so they just had the water. But it was at least good and hot, enough it made his hands sting.

He must have winced because she made a noise of sympathy, touching his arms. She scrubbed at some of the dried blood, then reached up to touch his jaw. "What can I do?" she asked softly. "What do you need?"

Things she couldn't give him. He had a good sense of where her boundaries were. How far he could push before she panicked. It wasn't her job to help him sleep, or to keep his head on straight. But he longed for it anyway, especially on nights like this. She watched him patiently, like she'd wait forever. Like she'd give him anything he asked, even if it hurt her. Maybe he just had to figure out how to ask.

He couldn't. Not tonight. Not out loud. Instead, he bent his head and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing close to him, body flush against his. The kiss was tender and fierce; like Nat herself. She wanted to help him. She'd been trying to help him since he woke up tied to a bed on the helicarrier. She was the only person on that ship who would have let him up.

He didn't believe she was the only one who could stop him. The rest of them could have, with their various super strengths. Hell, he wasn't bulletproof. Anybody with a big gun and good aim could have gotten him. Certainly they would have. He lifted his head. "You were the only one who wouldn't kill me."

She stilled, looked up at him with wide eyes. He knew she'd thought the same thing. Crouched on the floor of the carrier with the Hulk's roars ringing in her ears. She'd realized someone was going to get to him sooner or later and they wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in his brain. And that was the thought that had gotten her moving again. 

She swallowed visibly, then gave a little nod. "Yes."

He pushed her damp hair off her face. "It wasn't a question," he whispered.

Somehow she managed a weak little smile. "There is no Romanov without Barton."

"I think that goes the other way, too." He tipped up her face and kissed her again. This time she made a little noise in her throat when she pressed into him. One hand slid up to bury in his wet hair, holding him to her. He lifted her up against the slippery tile wall. "You. I need you."

Her legs slipped around him and she hitched herself higher. "That, you always have," she told him.

Neither of them said anything else. It was the sort of sex they sometimes had on an adrenaline high after a mission, the sort where they left a trail of guns and clothing on their way to a broken coffee table. But there was no rush, no adrenaline. Just a desperate attempt, for a few minutes, not to think, and not to feel anything except for her.

Her teeth sank into his shoulder when she came and he slammed her back into the wall so hard they shook a couple tiles loose at the end. They stayed tangled together, panting, until the water pounding on them grew frigid and Nat reached over with a foot to turn it off.

Very gently, he set her down—aware that the tub was cheap and slippery. Then he braced his arms on the wall to try and catch his breath. Exhaustion crept up, making him worry for a second his knees might give. She held his waist, watching him carefully a moment. When they both had their balance they climbed out carefully and wrapped themselves in every towel they had. She shooed him into the bedroom and joined him a second later with a bottle of water and the first aid kit. Without a word they sat on the bed and she carefully bandaged his hands.

"It was a stupid thing to do," he said.

"Yes, it was." Nat had a limit to how comforting she could be. "But it's done and nobody got killed that wasn't supposed to be." She taped the last bit of gauzed down and repacked the kit. "I've done worse." She tossed the kit aside and turned back to him. "You look exhausted."

"I don't think I can see straight," he replied in agreement.

"Lay," she told him. She gathered up the towels and returned them to the bathroom. He tugged the sheets down to obey and listened to her do a perimeter check of the apartment before she came to join him. 

"I've been having some nasty nightmares," he said, aware his voice sounded a little slurred.

"It happens," she said softly, stroking his hair. She settled against him, a warm weight at his side. "They'll fade with time."

He closed his eyes. "You make it better. Dunno why."

She kissed his brow. "We'll figure out how to be together more often."

As he drifted, he reached under the blanket for her hand. "Stay."

Her fingers wove with his. "Always," she whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

_Somewhere along the M05, Odessa, Ukraine, 2009_

The scientist was praying. 

Nat shouldn't find that funny, but she kind of did. No atheists in foxholes, they say. She hissed air through her teeth in an effort to shush him, pushing him deeper into the brush. Their car was a write off, but maybe someone else in the motorcade would make it down before whoever had taken the tires out. Maybe they'd call in a helicopter.  
 Maybe she'd sprout wings and get them out herself.

There was a crunch of boots on leaves and she turned, shoving her package behind her, standing as he crouched. Coming down the incline was a man, not one of her team. He had a mask and goggles on and one arm glinted metal in the light. 

_Holy shit. Clint is never going to believe I met the Winter Soldier._

She lifted her gun with the arm that wasn't dislocated and shouted in Russian, "Stop."

The Soldier did so, two thirds of the way down the ravine, tilting his head as if surprised. Then he lifted his weapon and fired.

Fire blazed through her stomach and her legs gave out. She heard an odd gurgling noise and looked behind her to see the scientist with a hole in his throat. _Fuck._

With a crunch of boots, the Soldier started back up the ravine.

She really wanted to shoot back at him, but none of her limbs seemed to be working. Above her she heard weapon fire. The hole in her stomach was bubbling up blood, and she looked at it with an odd detachment, trying to process the angle of the shot. She wondered if her pelvis was broken. Better that than her spine. 

Both of which would be moot if she bled to death right here, which was looking more likely by the minute. She didn't have the strength to rip her shirt, but she could peel it off and pressed it against the wound. The back would be worse, exit wounds always were, but she only had the one shirt.

Clint. She should call Clint. So he didn't just get a call from Coulson saying she was gone. He'd want to say goodbye. She tried to get her phone out but her fingers weren't cooperating. Shock. She was going into shock. That was bad.

She needed her phone. She had to. . . she should tell him. . .

Her vision grayed to the sound of whomp-whomp-whomp. The devil was coming for her in a helicopter.

She came to in a blaze of pain. She was no longer at the bottom of a ravine. She was on a gurney and a woman with a facial scar had just put her shoulder back in place. "Easy, Agent," the woman said. Nat hoped she was a doctor or nurse or something. "I'm Dr. Newbury." Oh, good. "We're prepping you for surgery. Thought I could get your arm back where it belonged."

Newbury eased her back on the bed. "I bet that's not your first dislocation, is it?"

"No," she whispered.

"When was your first?" 

She was trying to keep her conscious, get her vitals. Nat realized this in a detached sort of way, but was still impressed. "I was eight," she muttered.

The doctor's eyes met hers briefly. She moved away and came back with an IV kit. "That's young," she told her. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty five." Hopefully she'd make it to twenty six.

"Better watch out. Repetitive joint injuries can cause arthritis later in life." She kept talking as she set up Nat's IV, asking questions here and there until the OR was ready. 

She could feel her feet. That was good. No spine. She wasn't sure she wanted to be saved if she was going to be paralyzed. "How bad?"

"Good news is, it missed your kidney and your large intestine," the doctor said matter-of-factly. "Bad news is you lost a lot of blood and it damaged your ilium. How badly will be up to the surgeon to determine." She hung the IV and stood so Nat could see her easily. "If it was bad you'd be in the ER with me. I'm a trauma surgeon, I keep you alive by any means necessary. You're not in there with me, you're out here having a nice chat and getting your shoulder reset. You're in for a lot of rehab and PT and I'll bet you might start setting of metal detectors, but you're going to live. Whoever shot you was either terrible or a surgeon with a bullet."

There were painkillers in the IV, clearly, and they began circulating in Nat's system, making her feel foggy and peaceful. "Option B. You should have seen the guy behind me."

"Ah. Well. You can tell me all about it when you wake up." She paused and Nat realized she'd closed her eyes and couldn't see why. "They're ready in the OR. Why don't you start counting for me? Backwards from one hundred. When you wake up you'll have a brand new scar."

"One hundred. Ninety-nine, nintey-eight. _Dev-devyanosoto sem. . ._ "

One didn't dream under anesthesia, so the next thing Nat knew, she was waking up in a hospital bed. She blinked slowly, taking in the dim light, the beeping and clicking machines. She frowned at the foot of the bed, as there was an extra pair of feet in socks down there. It took her a moment for her head to clear enough for her eyes to follow the attached legs up to where Clint was asleep in a chair.

He wasn't supposed to be here. Wherever here was. He'd been somewhere else. She was happy to see him, though. She'd missed him. She tried to move her foot to touch his. "What're you doin' here, _yastreb_?" she murmured.

He opened his eyes and sat up. "You're awake."

She sighed and shifted against her pillow. "I think so. You might be a dream. 'R you a dream?"

"No, I'm real." He got up and came to sit on the side of her bed. "Coulson called me."

Keeping her eyes open was really hard. She was pretty sure if she closed them she'd fall back asleep, though. "I figured he would." She stretched a hand out and he caught it. "'M I okay?"

"You are. You will be. Your blood pressure crashed during surgery, but they got you stable." He lifted her hand and kissed it. "You'll make a full recovery."

"Good. That's good. I was worried about my feet, but they still move." She squeezed his hand. "I tried to call you, but I passed out."

He looked surprised. "You tried to call me."

She gave up and let her eyes close. She'd stay awake. He was talking to her so she'd stay awake. "I was bleeding. I didn't know if anyone was coming. I wanted to say goodbye. So you could hear me."

His hand tightened on hers, and his voice was a little hoarse when he said, "Tasha."

"'S'okay," she told him, rubbing her fingers over the back of his hand. "I made it. And you're here. It's okay."

"I will stay as long as I can. I don't know how long that will be."

She frowned and forced her eyes open. "Where you goin'?"

He sighed. "I may have stolen a jet."

It required rallying what little energy she had left, but she managed a very exasperated. "Clinton Francis Barton."

He looked back and her and said, "I thought you were dying."

Well, she had tried harder to call him than she had to shoot the man who had shot her. So she supposed she understood. She squeezed his hand. "Anyone makes you leave, they answer to me."

That made him smile. "I think you may be a little off your game, honey."

"I can take 'em." She sighed and closed her eyes. "I'm gonna sleep now. Lay with me?"

"Am I allowed to do that?"

"I'm the patient, I say you are." She tugged his hand. "IV is on the other side. It's ok."

After a moment, he acquiesced, taking his jacket off and very, very carefully climbing into the bed with her. She couldn't roll towards him the way she wanted, but he tucked his arm under her head and she could feel the heat of him against her. It was comforting in a deep, instinctive way she didn't have a name for. "G'night, my _yastreb_ ," she mumbled.

She felt him sigh, like he was finally relaxing. "Goodnight, Tasha."

*

Clint didn't know how long he napped. His body clock was all screwed up, so he wasn't even sure what time it was. Something woke him, and he lifted his head and squinted to see Coulson standing at the foot of the bed. 

"I make every attempt not to make assumptions, or pry into anyone's personal business, because I generally think what people do with their own time is just that, their own. But do you have any idea just how glaringly obvious you are being right now?"

He held a finger to his lips, and carefully extracted himself so he could get out of the bad. Natasha mumbled something in Russian, but settled back down. He checked her morphine drip, and then got up to herd Coulson into the hall. "Sorry," was all he said. What could he say?

"Sorry," Coulson repeated. "What if I'd been Fury? I don't think he'd believe you tripped."

"I'm never under the impression there's anything he doesn't know, so I don't worry about it." He sighed. "Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm about to get fired and possibly jailed." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I put in a request to take a jet, but I didn't wait for the reply. I was somewhere over Turkey when the official denial of request arrived." 

"C'mon Barton, if we fired people for occasionally stealing pieces of military equipment worth millions of dollars we wouldn't have any good agents left."

"You're a funny man, Coulson."

"I'm hilarious, it said so on my last performance review." He rubbed the back of his head. "Let's find some terrible hospital coffee and figure this out."

"Let me just leave her a note, in case she wakes up. I promised her I'd stay." Coulson nodded and took up a guard's position as Clint slipped back into the room. He scrawled a note, trying to keep it as neat as possible given how medicated she was. He tucked it under her hand, and leaned over to kiss her forehead. "I''ll be back soon," he whispered. She mumbled in Russian again but didn't stir. One of these days, he was going to need to learn some of that language.

Coulson fell into step with him as he came out and they walked down the hall. "There's been speculation about you two for years."

He inclined his head. "I am impressed with the accuracy of the SHIELD gossip mill." He wondered if Nat was going to be mad at him for admitting it. Possibly. Of course, his panicked rush here wasn't exactly subtle. People would talk. And for some reason it was next to impossible to lie to Coulson.

They found a cafeteria and got two cups of said awful coffee. "The jet's on its way back home," Coulson said. "We're working on the cover story. It's going to be terrible, but will keep most people from knowing what really happened. You have to face some sort of disciplinary action, though."

"Yeah," he said with a sigh. "I figured I would. Any chance it can wait until she's at least a little better?"

"I'm afraid not. We need to get it over with. As an example to others." Coulson cleared his throat, leaned back and crossed his arms. He studied Clint a moment then shook a chiding finger at him. "No. Don't steal jets. Bad."

Clint stared at him for a moment, then started to laugh. "Jesus Christ, Coulson."

"You don't have to be. . . well, gossip worthy, to do stupid things for your partner. No one got hurt, your mission wasn't compromised. A few feathers got ruffled and I wouldn't make a _habit_ of it, but. . . It's all right, Barton."

He blew out a breath and looked down. "Thank you." He hadn't really expected to be fired—he had a nearly irreplaceable skill set, and was one of the best marksmen in the world. SHEILD might be bureaucratic, but they weren't dumb. Especially with Nat down for what he imagined would be a while. Which probably meant he'd be working alone for a while. He hadn't missed that. "I expect the missions in my near future involving three days on the side of a mountain in ghillie suit will be punishment enough."

Coulson sipped his coffee. "Well, you'll probably be put on leave for a few weeks, just to make the wrist slapping visible. I talked to one of the doctors and they said barring complications she'll be sent home in four or five days. Then a wheelchair and bed rest for a couple weeks. Then PT. I figure you'll be begging for that ghillie suit by the time the PT starts."

That made him laugh. "Maybe SHIELD should thank me. She'd fire a nurse a week. I can tell you without exaggeration that I may be the only person on the planet capable of handling Natasha Romanov on medical restrictions."

"I believe that one hundred percent." The other man's face sobered. "She'll be on administrative work for a long time. You'll be separated, but I'll try to keep you in the same hemisphere if I can."

He sipped his terrible coffee, and then fiddled with the sugar packets. "There are far worse ways today could have gone."

"Yes, there are. The other agents are saying it was the Winter Soldier. We're keeping it quiet, no one wants to spread ghost stories. But he's probably the only asset in the world that could get a drop on her like that."

"I always thought he was a myth."

"So did I, but three separate agents said they saw the arm. And the bullet we pulled out of the man Nat was protecting was Soviet, no rifling." Coulson lifted a shoulder. "It was him or someone trading on the myth. Either way he was a hell of a shot."

"Am I going hunting?" His desire to do so was at direct odds with his desire to stay and take care of his partner. Better to let his boss make that call.

Coulson shook his head. "We've got half of SHIELD looking for him. He's in the wind. If we get anything I'll tap you, but I'm not going to hold my breath. He wouldn't be a myth if he didn't know how to hide."

"He's working for an organization. Or a government. He has to be." Freelancers you could find. That was how he'd finally cornered Natasha four years before. She'd fled the widow program and was taking jobs from the highest bidders. People looking for work didn't vanish quite as deeply as someone on government payroll.

"We're looking into it. I got Hand leaning on her Russian contacts. The China office is pulling all the strings it knows. It'll take time, but something with turn up. It always does."

"If you find him, I want to be the one who takes him out."

His boss eyed him a moment, then gave a little nod. "I'll do my best. But if it's time sensitive efficiency comes before vengeance."

"Of course." The were quiet for a bit, and then he drained his coffee cup. "Two years."

He could see Coulson counting back in his head. The man had an encyclopedic knowledge of SHIELD and its history and missions. Clint had no doubt he was trying to pin down which, mission exactly started it. Finally, he asked, "Cairo?"

Clint rubbed his forehead. If there was one mission of his that everyone at SHIELD knew about, it was Cairo. He'd given up explaining that burka wasn't, technically, a dress. And it actually make really excellent cover. He gave Coulson a look. "No."

"Huh." He tipped his head back and snapped his fingers. "Monte Carlo."

He stared at him. "Okay, correct. A little creepy, but correct."

"I'll ignore the creepy in the glow of being correct." Coulson went to drink, made a face and put it back on the table. "If you've been going that long then my next two lectures are moot."

"But you know I love your lectures so."

His brows went up. "I could do a short version. Combine them, maybe. The one about focus and not thinking with your genitals was especially good. I was going to misquote "The Lion in Winter" and see if you noticed."

"I was hoping for the one with lepers." He fiddled with his empty cup, bending the paper rim. "Patterns are easy to see if you watch from a distance. I could make you a list off all the agents I know who are sleeping with each other. Job with this kind of stress and isolation? It's a pretty big list. Some of them, the gender of the partner would surprise you. The military is the same, as much as the brass tries to pretend otherwise to the press. All armies in the field are fucking someone. Probably been that way since we first figured out organized stick throwing. At least now it's mostly each other an not the locals."

Coulson lifted a shoulder. "I can't deny having my own relations in the field. You're right, it's common as ants at a picnic. The two of you are just a little bit of a surprise. I would have thought it would be too much for you. Hard to sleep with the person who has your back and not start to feel something for them. And Natasha doesn't handle feelings well."

All he could think about right then was her sobbing in his arms the night she told him about her past. The way she'd looked at him and silently asked him to make it better. And how when she thought she was dying, the thing she worried about most was him. Maybe it wasn't love, but it was enough. "You don't give her enough credit."

The other man studied him a moment, obviously a little surprised. Then he gave a little nod, face returning to passive. "Maybe I don't know her as well as I thought."

"She keeps things well hidden." He glanced around the room, then back at Coulson. "We kill people for a living. I kill people. They generally deserve it. But they're still people, and not mustache-twirling arch villains. Few people are truly evil. They have people they love and who love them. I once shot someone at the dinner table, in front of his family. I didn't want to, but it was the first clear shot I'd had in two days. He was a genocidal dictator who earned that bullet, but I doubt that mattered to his six year old." He sighed. "It isn't the same as killing someone in a fight, or in an op. It is cold, calculated, government sanctioned murder. To do that, and stay sane, requires a level of mental and emotional compartmentalization that is very hard for anyone else to understand."

"There are very few agents with your skills," Coulson said quietly. "Both of you are legends in SHIELD. I think they use Romanov as a boogeyman at the Academy to get recruits to up their field scores. However you've found to make it work I'm not going to judge it. But if either of you - or both of you - ever need to stop, come to me. Not Fury, not Hill. Me. And we'll figure it out."

He nodded. "Thank you." He'd always assumed the only way he'd go out was in body bag. That seemed the only ending that made sense. But now he wondered, just a little.

Coulson made a show of checking his watch. Speaking of people who didn't get in touch with their feelings. "Well. I'm supposed to be in New York. I just wanted to check in on you both." He stood. "Please keep me posted on her progress. We'll arrange for travel for you both when she's discharged."

"I will. And seriously, thanks for everything."

"Anytime, Barton. Take care." He slid on a pair of sunglasses and headed out the door.

*

Nat was released from the hospital four days later. A SHIELD jet took them from the hospital in Munich to a SHIELD owned rehab facility in Boston. Normally she would have kicked up a fuss and insisted on staying in an apartment on her own. She was on far too many painkillers to kick up much of anything, though. And she wouldn't have handled her new wheelchair very well on her own, either.

 The first week wasn't too bad. Clint kept her on a strict pain killer schedule and made sure she ate. Bone healing was a pain that could floor even her and she was usually watching the clock for half an hour by the time he announced it was pill time. The days passed in a haze of naps, take out food, and awful television.

Two weeks after she was shot the doctors lowered her pain killers and gave her a list of exercises she could do at home to get ready for PT. Her hip hurt most of the time on the lowered dose. Not enough to cripple her but enough she knew it was there. Her abdominal muscles complained at the mildest of strain and her back was even worse. For someone who was used to being in perfect-if-not-better physical condition it was a special kind of hell.

She was at least past the days when she had to call for a nurse or wait for Clint to get her from the bed to her wheelchair. She was pretty sure she could get from the bed to the small couch in her room without the chair, but if she didn't bring the chair with her, Clint would notice. He'd already threatened to have the room wired with cameras.

He had been a rock through her recovery, despite the fact she was taking out most of her ire on him. The nurses probably thought they were in some sort of abusive relationship, but he took it all with his usual calm. The pain was easing enough now she was starting to feel a little bad about her behavior. So when he came in with a bagel sandwich and latte she mustered a smile. "They said I can start proper PT today."

He put the food down in front of her. "My understanding is you will hate your therapist with every fiber of your being. If you don't, you should request a new one. Kind of like drill sergeants."

She picked up the coffee and sipped it, humming a little in pleasure. She didn't know what alchemy he did to get it here hot, but it was occasionally the highlight of her day. "I look forward to it. Anything to get me out of this thing."

He leaned over to kiss the top of her head. "It will be good to have you back in fighting form."

"I'm sorry I'm such a bitch," she said quietly.

He shrugged easily. "You're in pain, and you're trapped in here. I wouldn't take that well either."

"How much more 'enforced leave' do you have?" she asked. Because that's what it was. Punishment. And absolutely not him taking time off to take care of her.

"Nobody's told me yet. But I get patches of downtime anyway sometimes, so. . .who knows."

Nat was pretty sure Coulson would reroute some memos for them if anyone did want Clint back in the field before she was out of here. He'd told her about their chat in the hospital. It was nice to have someone on their side at least. She leaned over to rest her head on his side. "I dream of getting off pelvic rest."

He chuckled. "That is a dream I share."

PT wasn't nearly as bad as she'd been lead to believe. Though her therapists probably wouldn't have agreed. Whereas most people struggled with their therapies and did the minimum required to move on, Nat was the opposite. If they told her to do five reps of ten she did ten reps of fifteen. If they wanted her to aim for five steps with a walker, she wouldn't sit until she'd done ten. She pushed herself far harder than the therapists did. One of them even took Clint aside to ask him to watch her, because she was doing too much at-home work.

Still, it was one of her best days ever when she met him at the door of her room, leaning on her walker. "They said I'm wheelchair free," she informed him, sounding about fifteen years younger and giddy. He grinned, and then he leaned over, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. It was annoying that she couldn't put her arms around him without the risk of toppling, but being upright and kissing him was the best thing to happen in weeks.

"I'm being discharged this afternoon," she added when he lifted his head. "Outpatient from here on."

"Are you moving to The Building?" There was an apartment building in in city that SHIELD used to house people staying in the area. They had them scattered all over. Much more secure and probably cheaper than hotels—but less conspicuous than actual official housing. Wherever they happened to be, they were just called The Building.

"Yeah, they want me to stay near the PT until I'm cleared. The super's meeting me today at 4." She gave him a sly look. "Any floor I should request?" 

"I'm on 7. There's a handicap accessible unit on 5. They're going to put you in that."

"Aww. Were you reconning for me?"

"I like to be aware of the spaces I stay in. As, I know, do you."

"Well, thank you." She stretched up and kissed him lightly. "I have now hit the length of time I'm allowed to stand. Come help me finish packing?"

"Sit," he said. "I'll do it." She had to admit, that was a little bit what she'd been hoping. Clint could pack a three bedroom house into a small U-haul. She hobbled over to the couch and sat with a sigh. Mobility was a beautiful thing.

He watched her sit before starting the packing. She hadn't gotten very far. "Coulson told me you'll be desk bound for a bit."

She sighed and nodded, gingerly leaning back."Yeah. Sounds like mostly evaluations. I talked to Hill a couple days ago and she said as soon as I was moved to the Building they'd send me files if I was ready. I'm pretty sure I'll get bored enough to request them soon."

He nodded. "Hill isn't speaking to me."

"What did which of you do?"

He laughed. "She's still mad about the jet. You know how she feels about protocol."

Nat had a feeling that jet was going to down in SHIELD legends. Along with his burka. "I can see how that would get under her skin. She sent me some really nice chocolates when I got here."

He zipped her suitcase. "Wounded in the line of duty is worthy of chocolate."

"Lots of people sent food." There had been a couple of bouquets, some balloons. Melinda May had sent her beautifully balanced throwing knives. _For defending yourself at a distance,_ the note had read. She needed to buy that woman dinner next time they were in the same city. "Coulson sent me a flat of mixed fruit cocktails. The good ones. In syrup."

He shook his head. Clint was somewhat revolted by her taste in highly processed food. Which she thought was pretty funny coming from someone who grew up in the midwest. "And here I am, without a get-well gift."

"You're present enough," she said, with a little more sincerity than intended.

He grinned. "I think you're just sucking up in hopes that I'll keep bringing you breakfast."

She blew put a breath and returned the grin. "Can't hurt, right?"

He sat next to her for a moment, just looking at her. "I'm really glad you're getting better."

Scooting closer, she rested her head on his shoulder. "Me too. Thanks for putting up with me."

"I had to. I knew nobody else would."

She had to laugh. It was probably true. She imagined the nurses here would be throwing a party when she left. "It would have been a lot harder without you."

"It was an honor to take care of you." He rested his chin on top of her head. "I almost lost you."

That was true. No one at the hospital in Germany had been willing to give her many details about her surgery; just that her pressure had crashed but it had been fixed quickly. It wasn't until Dr. Newbury had called her at the rehab center she’d gotten the full story. Apparently, she'd only been in Munich for a training conference and would be stationed at the Triskelion from now on. 

_"Your pressure bottomed out when they were closing you up. It happens. The body can only take so many shocks and surgery is a big one. You went tachi and we had to use the paddles, but you snapped back right away. Couple extra meds and more fluid in your IV and you stabilized. I wrote 'No blood thinners' on your chart in big letters myself. Come visit me when you're upright. Maybe by then I'll stop getting lost in this place."_

Nat was not a fan of people in white coats. But she was starting to think she liked Dr. Newbury.

She squeezed Clint's hand. "One life down."

"Two," he said. "You have no idea how close I came to shooting you in Baghdad."

"Oh, I was quite certain you would. Or did you mean before I spotted you?"

"You spotted me because I hesitated."

She leaned back to look at his face. "Were you stunned by my beauty? Mesmerized by me ass?" 

"I don't know," he said after a moment. "There was something about you. Didn't fit with what I expected. You were so young."

She'd been twenty one, as a matter of fact. Out of the program almost two years, taking whatever jobs she could find. Lean, hungry and more than a little desperate. She'd looked down the shaft of that arrow and almost wished he'd let it fly. "Though, if we're counting that sort of almost died I'm surely out of lives by now. I was getting rather reckless by the time you found me."

"We noticed. That's why I was hunting you. Best thing I've ever done." 

Funny, they'd never really talked about this. About when he found her. Those first few months. "I was tired," she admitted. "Even away from the program. . . I didn't see any end to it."

"I didn't expect it was my charm that convinced you to come with me."

"You had a nice smile," she offered. It had been very sincere. She wasn't used to that.

"Sometimes my instincts are good." He glanced at his watch. "You have PT in five minutes."

"And after that, freedom." She grabbed her walker and hauled herself up. "Do you think Boston has decent Russian food?"

"I will locate some." He paused. "I've been looking for a non-caveman way of inserting this into the conversation, and I can't find one, so I'm just asking. . . what's the status on the sex ban?"

"When I can walk ten steps unassisted. Therapist thinks a week, maybe less." She winked. "Why do you think I'm working so hard?"

He grinned. "I will find you borscht if I have to drive to New York."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." She kissed his cheek. "I'll see you later. Thank you for packing."

"Kick ass in there, as usual." 

"I don't know how to do it any other way."


	10. Chapter 10

_Boston, 2009_

The Building's units were functional, but they were basic. Clint spent the afternoon trying to make Nat's a little more livable. Though she didn't like to admit it, she liked her creature comforts. A stocked fridge and better sheets were his primary orders of business. He got cords out of the way so she wouldn't catch the walker on things, shoved the coffee table into the utility closet, and replaced the cheap CFL lightbulbs with ones that didn't make his eyes twitch. She couldn't tell them apart, but he figured he'd be down here a lot. He just had to figure out how to do so while avoiding the hallway cameras. No need to be obvious.

When she finally arrived she was tired. PT still took it out of her and her stamina wasn't back yet. She hobbled into the bedroom and grinned, obviously noting the new sheets. She napped while he went on his Russian food quest and nodded off on the couch after he'd returned with dinner.

She was much easier to deal with out of the rehab center. A little independence made a difference. It probably helped she was making noticeable progress in the mobility department. He still had to hover over her about her meds and she probably would have lived on fruit cocktail and Kraft mac 'n cheese without him. But her mood was better.

He was still making a show of leaving her place after dinner. They'd have liked to spend the night together, but she was a little stiff still and he didn't want to risk tipping their hand. They seemed to have decided this qualified as 'in the field', so it was just a matter of how she felt. She seemed so exhausted in the evenings he wasn't sure even the official sign off would be it. He didn't want to be a jerk. 

One morning, a little over a week after she moved in, he let himself in with smoothies. Nat was in the kitchen with her walker, making coffee. She looked up and grinned when he came in and held up a hand. "Stay there." She released the walker and, slowly and gingerly as a woman three or four times her age, she walked over to him unassisted. 

He put the cups down on the table by the door so he could hug her. "That's a wonderful thing to see."

She wrapped her arms around him, hanging on for dear life. "That was twelve steps, if you're curious."

He nuzzled her hair. "I don't want you to overdo it."

"You're more than welcome to carry me back to the walker, if you want." She leaned back to look at him. "I don't have any PT on Thursday. I was thinking it might be a good day to lift the ban, so to speak."

"If you're sure you're up to it, I accept your offer." 

"I don't think I'll be hanging from the door frame. But I miss you and I'm horny as fuck." She grinned. "It's been one of my PT goals from the beginning."

He leaned down and kissed her, really kissed her, and felt her respond. "I do try to support your goals."

Her hands tangled up in his hair. "I have a hell of a scar," she said, sounding a little uncertain.

After a moment, he lifted his head and looked down at her. "I like scars."

It was possible she was blushing, which was kind of adorable. "It's worse than any of my others."

"I appreciate that they gave you enough narcotics that you don't remember I used to help the nurse change your dressings, but I don't think it's physically possible for it to look worst than it did when it still had drainage tubes."

"Oh, my God." She pressed her face into his shoulder. "Are you sure you still _want_ to have sex with me?"

"You do have the best tits in the western hemisphere," he replied. Now he was just baiting her.

When she leaned back again she'd managed a glare. "They're boobs, Clint. Tits are for B cups."

He laughed. "Whatever you want to call them, I miss them. Thursday?"

She smiled. "Yes. Thursday."

It was going to be a long couple of days.

Wednesday afternoon, Hill called him to tell him about a box of files being delivered for Nat. She wanted him to come down and get it from the courier because Nat wouldn't be able to. "So, I take it by your making this call and not having one of your minions do it that I am migrating off the Shit List." 

"Yes. You're one step up, on the Irritating as Fuck but Ultimately Useful list. Keep up the good work you'll be back on the Nice List in time for Christmas."

"If it helps, my nursemaid duty has involved being cursed at in seven languages, one of which I think may have been Klingon, talking two nurses out of quitting, and convincing an admittedly ham-fisted phlebotomist that a death threat was not genuine." It actually might have been genuine, there'd been a lot of sharp things around and she'd been at the tail end of her narcotic cycle.

"Hey, you picked her, Barton. It's just as easy not to stick your dick in the adorably psychopathic."

"I can neither confirm nor deny any rumors you may have heard." Coulson wasn't a gossip. Hill was fishing. The Airplane Incident was somewhat damning, but that was still just a part of the rumor.

Hill actually laughed a little. "Still got your poker face. Good. Files will be there in an hour. Tell me if she's taking on too much and I'll mysteriously reroute the next batch."

"Got it."

"Also, heads up. Fury wants you back to work. Coulson is running out of excuses. I'd expect a call very soon."

That made him smile. _That_ was really why she called personally. And clearly, he was officially off the Shit List. She then hung up without saying goodbye, but that was pretty standard. Hill didn't like to waste words.

The files arrived in one brown, nondescript cardboard box. He lugged it up to Nat's apartment and found her on her couch, a cooking show on her TV. She had a cane she was twirling from one hand to the other like it was a short staff.

"They gave you a cane?"

"I bought myself a cane. They said it was all right to start transitioning off the walker. There's an antique store across the street that's had this in the window since I moved in." She looked over and grinned at him. "There's a sword in it."

Sometimes he really adored her. "Of course there is."

"It's about time I made this injury work with my weak and fragile charade." She sat up. "Are those my files?"

"They are." He set the box on the couch beside her. "Hill called. Sounds like now that you're getting back to work. . . so am I."

Nat made a face. "I guess we shouldn't be surprised. I don't technically _need_ a minder anymore."

He sighed, and sat on the other side of the box. "I'm guessing my phone will ring tomorrow."

"Of course. Because it's Thursday."

He leaned over the box and kissed the top of her head. "I'll make you some dinner." She closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, then nodded. She still looked a little pensive, but that was probably the best reaction he could hope for. He dragged the coffee table back out now that she was off the walker, so they could eat on it. Once they'd finished, they took some of the files out. He probably wasn't supposed to see them, but no one had specifically told him not to, and his clearance was technically higher than hers.

Most were on potential 084s, people with potential superpowers that SHIELD needed to contact and track. Nat would have to sort through and try to separate the wheat from the chaff, then prioritize the legitimate claims. It was usually pretty boring work. Grunt work. But sometimes the backstories were interesting. And Nat had a bit of a knack for picking out legitimate threats.

She opened her own file and skimmed it. "Well, they'll entertain me while you're off saving the world without me."

"Don't make me think about that." He skimmed the one he was holding. "Oh, man, not this guy."

"Someone you know?" she asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Everybody knows who Tony Stark is." He handed her the file. "Because the only thing better than a drunk asshole is a famous one. In a flying, armed metal suit. That has disaster written all over it."

"Oh, right. 'I am Iron Man.'" She said it in a pretty good mimic of Stark's cocky tone. "His father was one of the founders, you know. I suppose it makes sense that Fury would want to look into him. Now that he's doing something more that making bombs."

"I did know that. I actually went to the Academy, unlike some of us." 

"No one likes a braggart, Barton," she said primly.

"I'm going to miss you," he said suddenly, surprised by the words as they came out. Not so much surprised that he'd miss her, but how much. And that he'd actually managed to say it.

She looked a little startled herself. That was treading rather close to emotions and feelings they both seemed to avoid discussing. But she put her file down, leaned over and kissed him. "I'll miss you, too," she said softly. "It's not forever."

"I know. But you're just starting to be. . ." Wow, he could not think of a way to say 'not a bitch' without possibly insulting her.

Being Nat, she figured it out pretty quick and offered, "Pleasant to be around?"

"Kinda. Yeah."

She laughed and kissed him again. "Well, I'm only going to get more so. I'm stuck here another few weeks before I go to DC. We may be able to squeeze in more time,"

"I will do everything in my power to make that happen."

"In the meantime. . ." She drew little circles on his chest. "You haven't gotten that call yet."

"I feel honor bound to point out that it's still Wednesday."

Her mouth opened in feigned shock. "Gosh, you're right." She pursed her lips, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "What could we do to kill time until Thursday? I think there's a Monopoly board in the closet."

He laughed. "I have a deck of cards. We could play gin rummy."

"How about strip poker?" she said immediately. He probably should have seen that coming.

He groaned. "I'm going back upstairs."

She blinked. It was funny how different her real shocked face was from her fake one. "I - What?"

"I don't want to hurt you or set back your recovery." His libido did not agree with that statement. It may have wanted to punch him in the face. He really must be in love with her. 

"The doctor said I could resume normal activity when I could walk unassisted and I can," she pointed out, obviously struggling to sound reasonable and not whiny. "I only said Thursday because I don’t have PT so we'd have all day. If you think you're getting a phone call. . ."

He held a hand out to her. "Just satisfying the conscience I've suddenly grown." Her smile, when she put her hand in his, was utterly brilliant. He stood, and he pulled her up slowly. "You have to help me figure out how to do this and not hurt you."

She nodded. "I promise to tell you if it's too much." Her hands curled over his shoulders. "We can go slow."

He nodded, and reached to tug her shirt up, and she hesitated before lifting her arms. "Honey, I don't care about the scars."

" _I_ care," she muttered, sounding defensive and self conscious. She did finally lift her arms for him, though. He pulled it up slowly, turning it inside out as it cleared her head. The scar was red and angry and very obvious. He'd never known her to be self-conscious about anything, and particularly her body, in the entire time he'd know her. 

Something about the way she held herself made him hurt. "Our war wounds are just signs we're still alive."

She glanced down at the wound. "I'm just not used to them. . . changing how I look."

"It's part of you, just like the experience was. Almost dying leaves a mark, one way or the other."

It took her another moment to look back to him, but when she did her posture relaxed a little. "Have I told you how sexy you are when you're being zen?"

He unhooked her bra. "I had no idea that did it for you."

"I like the ways we're different. Everyone needs someone who can make them see things a different way."

He bent his head to kiss her, sliding his hands over her skin, up to cup her breasts. It had been too long since he'd touched her like this. They'd had plenty of separations, but this had been different. It was one of the longest stretches they'd been in the same place, but he'd spent most of it taking care of her, and she'd spent most of it feeling miserable.

The little noise she made when he stroked his thumb over her nipple indicated misery was the furthest thing from her mind at this point. Her posture softened further and he felt one of her hands slip beneath his shirt to stroke the skin of his lower back. He lifted his arms, letting her pull the shirt over his head. He took a few steps back, guiding her towards the bed.

She still moved a little stiffly, but it was a short trip and the apartment was arranged such that they didn't have to dodge around any furniture. At the edge of the bed she stopped and carefully released him to pull down her sweat pants, sitting to kick them off completely. Getting clothing out of the way seemed like a good idea, so he stripped the rest of his. "Seriously, if anything hurts. . ."

"You will be the first to know," she said solemnly. Her fingers curled over his hip and tugged him closer so she could kiss his stomach. "Trust me. This is the kind of pain even _I_ react to."

He stroked her hair, feeling a twinge at that. "I know."

Another soft kiss, this one on this thigh. "You won't have much fun if you spend this fretting about whether or not you're hurting me."

"I've been worrying about you for weeks and weeks. I might be stuck like this."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, sounding at least partly sincere under the flirting. "Maybe I can help unstick you." She ran her mouth along the crest of his hipbone before tugging him a little closer and wrapping her lips around his growing erection. Her lids fluttered shut briefly, then she opened her eyes and looked up at him as she moved on him. He didn't take his eyes off her. Watching was almost as hot as feeling. And she was a master at this.

And, to her credit, he did feel some of his worry begin to unravel. The tension he'd been carrying in his muscles loosened. She was safe and, if not healthy, then well on her way to it. And she was his, at least for one more night.

He was hard as a rock and reaching his limit she pulled back, giving him one last kiss on the tip of his cock. She gave him a smile and scooted back on the bed, bracing her back on the headboard and reaching for him. He climbed up to her. "I hate to insert an awkward logistic conversation, but. . ."

She kissed him lightly. "I'm pretty sure I can't do the driving. I think as long as you're not rough we can try missionary. With the proper arrangement of pillow support we could also try from behind." He loved how matter-of-fact she sounded. Of course, they had probably done this in every conceivable position, it was just a matter of narrowing their options.

He ran his hands up her legs while he contemplated. He bent his head to kiss her thigh. "Maybe I'll start with this."

She grinned, stroking his hair. "That's an excellent start." He very gently tugged her down a little bit, so he could touch and taste her. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she gasped, then moaned as he stroked her. He worked slowly, exploring her like it was the first time. Until she was panting and arching into him.

Sex noises and pain noises were pretty hard to tell apart, but the small, "Ow," was pretty distinctive. He froze.

"It's okay," she said quickly, patting his head. "My hips had a mind of their own."

He kissed her navel and sat up. "I noticed. Lay on your right side."

She moved gingerly and he helped brace her a bit so she could get settled. She let out a long breath once she was properly arranged. He settled stretched out behind her, and whispered, "We're going to play a game."

She let out another breath, this one a little shakier. "What kind of game?"

He kissed her shoulder. "One where you must stay perfectly still. Or I'll stop."

"Mmm. That sounds like a fun game." He grinned against her skin. He moved her leg as gently as he could, so he could slowly push inside her. She was wet enough it was an easy slide, but this position still tight. For a moment he had to be still himself. He could hear her breathing hard, but she didn't move, not even to push back against him.

"Can I move my arms?" she asked.

He moved her hair to kiss the back of her neck, and rocked into her. "No."

She gave a disgruntled noise. "I didn't know you were experienced in torture methods."

"Nonsense." He knew what she wanted, and he brought his hand around to touch her, to stroke her clit in slow circles. She sighed softly, relaxing into his touch. He decided not to count that as moving and kept up the stroking. Soon, she was breathing hard again. Over the curve of her shoulder he could see her hands fisting in the covers. He moved slowly, sliding in and out of her, the friction making up for the speed. It was almost painfully good. "Natasha," he murmured.

She made a soft, throaty noise in return, obviously beyond words. He felt her shudder, then she began to tighten around him. She gave a little wail as the orgasm swept through her, body pulsing against his fingers. He groaned, holding still inside her as he let go. The force of it surprised him, like a counterbalance the languid pace. She made a small, satisfied sigh and nuzzled back against him.

He closed his eyes, just breathing and inhaling her scent. "I missed you."

Her hand covered his where it lay against her stomach. "I missed you, too," she murmured.

"I wish I could stay. I wish. . ." He wished a lot of things. Most of them were completely impossible. 

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and leaned into him. "I know. It isn't fair."

"It is the order of our lives." He kissed her shoulder again, shoving away things he didn't want to feel. "It's good. It means you're getting better, and I want you to get better."

"I am feeling a lot better. We'll be kicking ass together again in no time."

They were on top of the blankets, and he really wished they weren't so they could just fall asleep like this. "I shouldn't stay."

She sighed. "I really want you to, though. I miss you."

"You'll probably be pretty sore tomorrow."

"Fortunately, I have the day off." She turned her head. "An extra dose of Percocet might make those files fly by."

Speaking of. . . "Stay here. I'll get you your pills."

She laughed a little as he disentangled himself. "Are you going to call me from the field and remind me?" she asked.

"If I need to." He lifted her up so he could get her tucked under the covers. They he went and got her meds and a glass of water. "Do I need to?"

"I can set a timer." She held her hands out obediently. The pills went down with half the water and she lay back against the pillows. "Can you stay a little longer? I'll probably nod off quick."

He smiled and climbed back into bed with her. "I can do that." She shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder. The sigh she gave seemed to come straight from her soul. He kissed her hair and asked, "Are you okay?"

She pressed a kiss into his shoulder. "I feel great. Your game was a good one."

From where his pants were at the foot of the bed, he could hear his phone begin to ring. That would be his assignment, he supposed. Earlier than expected. He felt her tense against him, and he said, "Screw it. They can wait."

"You sure?" she murmured, even as she curled her arm over his waist.

"Mmhm." He closed his eyes "What are they going to do? Suspend me?"

"Nooo. That would be terrible."

"Good night, Natasha," he whispered. He'd almost lost her. And now they were going to be separated for who knew how long.

Screw the cameras in the hall. He stayed there until dawn.


	11. Chapter 11

_February 2014, Washington DC_

Natasha hated winter.

She'd never been much of a fan. Snow and bitter winds brought back memories of Russia and her childhood before the Widow program. Cold days, hungry nights. Huddled in a bed with her sister under a blanket that did little to hold out the chill. Since she'd been shot and had some nice metal accessories added to her left pelvic bone, the animosity had gotten worse. Winter sank right into her skin now and ached on the way out.

Winter in DC wasn't as bad as most, but this one had been colder than usual. She crunched through a layer of snow on her way to her apartment.

_If you want to go, then go. Just give me a way to contact you._

It hadn't been the worst fight they'd ever had. The yelling he'd done when he'd heard she singlehandedly took out a bunch of Hammer's guards when she was supposed to be on administrative duties after said shooting had been worse. But what was she supposed to do? Ask nicely? Let Stark's driver handle them. Sometimes you had to crack some heads before you could crack computers.

But Clint worried, especially back then, right after she'd nearly died. And now it was her turn.

He'd been making noise about taking a break ever since he’d snapped in the Middle East. She'd made excuses to keep him with her. _It's almost the holidays, stay with me. I'll get a tree. Hill says she has a mission in the mountains, let's take it. Stay in a little cabin and make love in front of a fire. Thor is back on Earth, let's introduce him to every Midgardian liquor known to us._ They'd all worked, mostly, she thought, because she'd been the one asking and he could never deny her anything.

Then someone had finally seen fit to tell them that Coulson was alive and she'd thought, maybe, Clint was getting a bit better. One death taken off his list had eased what he was living with. Coulson had been so happy to see them. She'd hugged him, for God's sake. It had been a good day.

But the holidays had brought the wanderlust back and Nat was running out of excuses. Maybe he did need to run for a while. He dealt with things differently than she did. Being with people was harder for him and while she was usually an exception perhaps there was a limit to her company as well. Maybe, for Clint, there were some things that could only be sorted out alone.

All this swirled through her head, distracting her to the point she walked past her building into a small shopping district. She sighed. This is what the man did to her, driving her to distraction. This is what came of letting people past your walls and into your heart.

Not that she'd had any choice with him. Not really. He'd scaled that first outer wall the day he didn't put an arrow in her eye in Baghdad. Now he was in her bones, just like those metal screws. And, like them, sometimes he caused an ache.

She stopped to turn around and found herself in front of a jewelry store, front window emblazoned with Valentine’s sales. A necklace caught her eye and she stepped closer. Nat generally only wore jewelry as part of a cover, but that didn't mean she didn't like it.

A very long time ago, she and Clint had set down rules for their arrangement. To keep it contained. To make it easier to handle. Slowly, over the years, they'd started to break them. She would now, probably, put any woman he was with in an unmarked grave somewhere. And they certainly didn't keep it to the field anymore. Perhaps it was time to break one more. It might make it a little easier to let him go.

She shook the snow out of her hair and slipped into the shop. 

Half an hour later, she was on the metro to Clint's apartment. She didn't go over there much, because it was out of the way and a shoebox of a studio that barely had space for him. But it was in Cathedral Heights, and from the roof of his building you could see the whole city clear to the Potomac. He chose it for the perch, with very little consideration for the living space itself.

He went back there mostly because he didn't keep stuff at her place. Other than the month right after the battle, and the week at Christmas, even when they were both in town he never stayed at her place more than a couple of nights. It was part of their very strange boundary system. Or perhaps he was trying to protect her from the worst of his nightmares. Tonight was supposed to be an off night, and it was starting to snow again, the front edge of an inbound storm. But they needed to talk.

She rang the buzzer and got nothing, so she called him. "I wasn't expecting you," he said when he answered, but his tone of voice didn't sound like her visit was a bad thing. "Take two steps back and look up."

She followed instructions, and she could see him leaning over the edge of the roof. It was 28 degrees out and snowing, and he was hanging out on his roof. In a leather jacket and no hat. His time with Loki had done something strange to his internal thermometer. She waved, and he said, "I'm dropping the keys down."

After a glance to make sure they were properly lined up she held out a hand. "Go." She followed the glint of metal down and caught them at eye level. Then she disconnected the call and let herself into the building.

He was waiting at the door to his apartment when she got there, melting snow on his shoulders. "Hey."

"Hi." She leaned up to kiss him, because she was happy to see him, despite the recent tension. "I needed to talk to you."

He took the keys from her, and unlocked the door. "Mission?"

"No." She stepped in ahead of him and started stripping off coat, hat, gloves and scarf. "I went for a walk. Did some thinking." Her fingers fidgeted her new necklace into place at the hollow of her throat as she turned to face him. "I think that if you feel you need to go be alone for a while then you should do it."

He looked surprised. "You do?"

She blew out a breath. "Yes. But I have conditions."

His face was completely impossibly to read, a very rare state these days. "I don't want to fight anymore, Nat."

"Neither do I," she said quietly. "I know you deal with things differently and you need your solitude. I've been telling myself that I didn't count against solitude but it's obvious I was wrong. So, here are my conditions." She held up a finger. "You check in with me. Every forty-eight hours. Twenty-four is better but I'm trying to be reasonable. Two," A second finger. "You give me some way to contact you. A text-only burner phone is fine; I don't need to know where you are. You don't need to reply outside of your scheduled check-in. You can delete texts without reading them, if you want. But I'm going to worry about you until I have you back in the flesh and this will help me deal with that."

He sighed, and then he reached out for her, pulling her against his chest. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what is wrong with me." She could hear grief in his voice.

She hugged him tightly. "You're dealing with something huge. Gods and monsters and nothing we've ever trained for. And I think you've done really well. Hopefully this will be your last piece. Walkabouts are a time honored tradition in many cultures."

"Maybe if I can clear my head," he said hesitantly.

"I don't think some time away will hurt you any. And hopefully it will help."

"I'm sorry," he said, and then he moved again so he could kiss her. She groaned and pressed into him, returning the kiss. He turned them, pressing her against the door. He yanked her sweater over her head, none too gently.

She arched a little, reaching behind herself to undo her bra. She hadn't planned on getting naked in front of anyone today and it was a utilitarian one. No ruffles or enticingly dainty hooks. He leaned away to strip his own jacket and shirt off and she took a moment to enjoy watching him move. 

It was then that he noticed the necklace. He stopped and stared at the tiny arrow, reached up to rub his thumb over it. She met his gaze when he looked back at her. "I bought myself a Valentine gift. Thought it would be nice to wear while you were gone."

She could see him swallow. "Tasha." She didn't know what to say that wasn't too big, too hard to get into now. It wouldn't be fair to say something that might make him stay when he needed the freedom to go.

With a shaky smile she reached up and stroked a hand down his chest. "I still don't know what we are," she said softly. "But I think it still works." She dropped her hand to press her palm over her own heart. "It's all right to need each other."

He rested his forehead on hers, and put his hand over hers. "I do need you."

"I need you, too. But I don't want to hold you when you need to run." She kissed him lightly. "Freedom works both ways."

"I don't want to hurt you."

She smiled. "Seven long years we've been doing this. You've never hurt me. You aren't going to start now."

"I'm not sure I deserve it, but I thank you for your faith."

There wasn't much in the world she had faith in. But Clint was right up there with the rising sun and the pull of the tides. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, holding him close. He lifted her up and carried her over to the bed, putting her down beside it so they could shed the rest of their clothes. They had a lot of conversations like this, no words, just the way their bodies connected. It had been the language of their relationship. She didn't know when it had stopped being fucking and started being making love. Probably about when he'd gotten into her heart. And today, what they were saying was goodbye.

*

_April, 2014. Somewhere in the Australian Outback._

Life outside of light pollution was like going back in time. The number of stars that were visible were unreal—and in the southern hemisphere they were different stars. The first time he'd tried navigating by them, years ago, he'd nearly gotten himself killed. By now, they were as normal as the stars back home. 

It was quiet out here, and peaceful. The nightmares had lessened the longer he was truly alone, and he managed to get a good night's sleep, despite it being on the ground. Live in a tent, hunt for his food. It was like the modern world and all it's problems had unwound and vanished. 

His sat phone beeped. 

Except that. Except the one tie from the real world he couldn't cut.

Nat had stuck to her conditions. A check in every forty eight hours. And in between she texted him. Sometimes once, sometimes a dozen times. Everything from what she had for dinner to mission reports. She'd been working with Steve Rogers since Clint had taken his leave of absence and seemed to enjoy tormenting the man.

_Steve totally just picked up a guy while jogging. If that man isn't bisexual at the least I don't give the best blow jobs in the South. And I think we both know that's not true._

Their timezones were nearly antipodal, and had the phone off during the day when he was hunting. But there was an overlap during what was nighttime for him, and morning for her. Often they'd talk. He still missed her every day.

_I'm amused you think there's someone better in the North._

_I try not to overreach. Pride goeth before the fall and all that._ Sometimes he didn't answer and she kept up the patter on her own. She never nagged, though, and never commented on when he did reply. Just went along as if it was a normal conversation. It added a certain steadiness and normalcy to his life in the bush. 

Someday, he'd figure out how to tell her what she meant to him.

_You're still the only 11. Signing off for the night._

_Sleep well, Clint. :*_

It took him most of the next day to find his dinner, mostly because all he came across were animals it was illegal to kill, and rabbits. If he ate any more rabbits he was going to get sick. 

It was certainly the first time in his life he'd ever shot a lizard with an arrow. He turned his phone on while it was cooking over the fire, surprised at how much he was looking forward to his texts from Natasha. 

There was a series of them waiting for him.

_All those brains and Stark can't make a faster plane. I'm surrounded by stinky men and BORED._

_Fury is making me do sneaky things behind Steve's back. This is one of those things that I should feel bad about, isn't it?_

_I think Steve needs to get laid. Do you think he's EVER gotten laid?_

_Approaching Indian Ocean. I don't think we've had sex in India. We should do something about that._

Her texting him about sex was making him want it. It had been years since they'd gone this long. Even though he knew the answer, since she was on a mission, he texted her his new, unrealistic pipe dream anyway. _Ditch 'em. I'll meet you in Goa._

There was a pause, then. _Oh sure, right when I'm about to jump out of a plane you start with the temptation. Lemme save the world first, then we can talk. I've always wanted to wear a sari._

_You could have them buzz Alice Springs on the way home, and jump. I'd meet you._

_Good idea. I'll float it when we're done. In the mean time, do you want to know some of the things I'd like to do to you when we're together again. 'Couple of them might be illegal._

He stared at the phone for a moment, then typed, _How secure is this line?_

_About as secure as my Best Blow Job in the South title will be when I get my hands on you._

That made him laugh. _I miss you._

_I miss you, too, my yastreb. Mission brief is starting. Talk soon._

He ate his dinner and got ready for bed while, he assumed, she went on her mission. He missed her. The sound of her voice and the feel of her body—even her scent. Maybe it was getting on time to go home. He just didn't know if he was ready.

Just before he settled in to sleep the phone buzzed one more time. _Bruised. Steve's pissed at me. No one we like died. Gonna be in transit + asleep for a while so no chat. Text you when I'm awake again. Be safe._

_I'll stay away from the crocs,_ he sent back, just before he went to sleep.

The next day was more of the same. He considered moving camps to find better hunting and wondered if it was another sign it was time to go home. Maybe meeting up with her somewhere neutral was a good idea. Dip his toe back in civilization.

But that felt oddly like cheating. Getting a taste of her and then running away again wouldn't be fair to either of them. Not that he thought a taste would be enough. And he didn't see Nat joining him out here in the bush. Her tolerance for roughing it was extremely finite.

There was no phone call that night and her texts were short and mundane. Fury's a dick Steve's idealistic. Her bed is comfortable. That, naturally, led to picturing her in bed. 

The Outback was starting to feel very lonely.

He'd just about made up his mind by the time his phone rang that evening. Then he heard her voice, rough and cracking. "Clint?"

He really wanted her voice to be a trick of the poor connection—or else something was very wrong. "Hey. Are you all right?"

"Fury's dead," she said and he knew it had nothing to do with the connection. "He was attacked in his car and managed to escape. He went to Steve's apartment and was shot through the window."

It took him a moment to actually speak. "Jesus. Who? _Why?_ "

"I don't know why, but something's going on. Steve hid something in a vending machine I need to go back and check out. But I do know who. Steve chased him and got a good look. It's the Winter Soldier. The one who got me in '09."

They'd searched. Thoroughly. And then she'd searched herself once better. They'd found nothing—no hint of even who he might work for, at least since the collapse of the USSR. He stood up, balanced the phone on his shoulder and kicked dirt over his fire embers. "I'm coming home."

He could hear her sigh in what he assumed was relief. "Be careful. Fury was being extra cagey. It's possible he thought there were dangers inside SHIELD. I don't know who to trust and obviously Steve doesn't either."

It would be two days, if he left right now, before he could even get on a flight to the States. He couldn't have just gone out in the desert in New Mexico, could he? "Does anyone else know about my line?" He was certain the line itself was secure, because it was Stark's. He'd called in a favor because he knew his employers recorded everything that came through their satellites, and he wanted a little privacy. But if SHIELD was compromised, then might be tracking even Nat's personal phone.

"I didn't tell anyone. I took my phone apart and didn't find a physical bug, but that doesn't mean anything." A pause. "Do you remember the code I taught you?"

SHIELD had an official code, but it was cumbersome. Nat had made one up for them long ago, for a mission that required the communicate via unsecured land lines. "I remember everything."

"Good. I'll keep you as up to speed as I can for as long as I can."

He shoved the last of his things into his bag, and picked up his bow. There was a long hike ahead of him. "Don't do anything crazy until I get there."

"Well, I'm about to go spend twelve dollars on gum to prove a point to Captain America. . . but other than that I'll do my best."

"I'll see you soon."

"See you soon," she echoed as they hung up. He tucked the phone away, and started to walk.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left!

_April, 2014. Somewhere in the Australian Outback._

He made good time, but still wasn't anywhere near something resembling a city or even civilization. He had hunted as he walked and settled in with his fire, turning the phone on with a sense of dread.

The text messages were in her code.

_SHIELD compromised. Tried to kill Steve. With extreme prejudice. We're on our way to Jersey to see what was worth killing Fury over._

_Steve knows how to hot wire a car. The man is like an onion. Layers._

_I have a confession to make. I had to kiss Steve to maintain cover and not get killed. I hope you can forgive me._

_He says I wasn't his first kiss since the 40s but I'm skeptical._

There was a long gap, then one last message, from a different number that had to be a burner. _SHIELD beyond compromised. Hydra from the start. Everything is a lie. This is deep shit, Clint. Trust no one._

Out in the middle of the desert, he had no idea what to make of that. Other than to not sleep, and try to make town by morning. He didn't know if she's be able to receive, but he texted back. _Cap?_

There was a long pause. Long enough he was contemplating a power nap when it buzzed. _Only honest man in SHIELD. Saved my life last night. We're together. Holed up with his jogging buddy._

His battery was dying. Fuck. He'd forgotten to hook up the solar changer because of the walk. _Phone going. Be safe. I'd still trust Coulson._ He thought about it a moment, then added, _And Thor._

The screen died. It would be morning before he could get it charged again.

He started walking at dawn, on very little sleep.As soon as he had enough power to turn the phone on he did so. And ended up stopping in his tracks to read the messages. Each from a different burner phone number, so he had no way of answering her.

_Winter Soldier is Steve's war buddy, Bucky. Bastard shot me again. Shoulder, all muscle. Don't worry. I almost took him down, though._

_Hill is still on the up-and-up. Saved us from Hydra. Fury is alive. Said he had to "keep the circle small." Relieved he's not dead, so I can kill him myself._

_Steve says it's got to come down. SHIELD, Hydra, all of it. Can't say I disagree. We're working on a plan._

_God, do I wish you were here._

He was curious how he was going to get home if they took SHIELD down. Considering he was an assassin, he was probably going to be pretty high on the 'people to arrest' list.

How many people had he killed, as it turns out, for Hydra?

And mostly, he wished he were there, too. Even though he knew it was night back home, he kept the charger open and the phone on, just in case. By nightfall he'd reached the nearest town. For certain definitions of the word "town". But it had people, vehicles, and an airstrip.

The phone buzzed one last time as he reached the edge of buildings. 

_Heading out for one last mission. Stark is on Hydra's hit list, so if this goes the way we hope it will he might be able to help get you home. It's a good plan but the fallout, especially for you and I, is big. Nothing will ever be the same. I'm going in and I don't know what's going to happen. But I want you to know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me. The best thing in my life. And I love you very much. Going dark._

He put his bag down, and then sat on the ground beside it. He was on the side of the road and could probably get run over, if there were cars. For a moment he really didn't care. She didn't expect to make it. He knew what goodbye sounded like. She'd probably already destroyed the phone, but just in case, he sent back, _I love you, too._

The town was large enough to have a motel. He learned from the desk clerk that there was regular air service, one flight three times a week. Unfortunately, that was the day after tomorrow, just to fly him to a slightly larger town, where he would then have to catch that town's flight to Perth—which was in the wrong direction—and then try and get a flight back to the States. If he could even get through customs anymore.

Though, if Natasha didn't make it, he had no real reason to go home.

He plugged his phone into the wall, and didn't sleep.

Just before dawn the phone buzzed and he damn near broke something lunging for it.

_Survived. SHIELD gone. Steve in hospital. Disregard previous message. Status?_

For a moment his eyes stung, and the letters on the screen swam. She was all right. _Stuck in BFE Australia. Working on exit. Stand by._ His motel room had a TV, and he turned it on and found the international news. Apparently they had crashed several helicarriers into the Potomac, and one into the Triskelion. Holy Shit.

He concentrated for a moment, trying to get his exhausted and foggy brain to remember a number he'd heard Nat recite once. It rang and rang. "Dammit, Stark, pick up your phone."

On the third try a very irritated sounding Stark answered wit, "No fucking comment."

"Oh, good, you're not dead. It's Barton. I need to borrow a plane."

The other man's voice immediately brightened. "Barton. You're not dead either. Is anyone we know dead? Banner's here and not dead, too, if you care."

"Nat's alive. So's Steve, though apparently in the hospital. Fury is not dead, despite reports. I am stranded in the Australian Outback and am guessing, from what I am seeing on the news, that trying to get on a commercial flight home might be a bad idea."

"Hence the plane, right. Look, you know mi private jet es su private jet, but everybody on the east coast is grounded right now. I can send you something as soon as that changes. It'd be a lot easier if you managed to get to something resembling a major city by then."

"I can apparently be in Perth the day after tomorrow."

"Barring another catastrophe, I think I can do that."

He sighed in relief. it was better than nothing. "Thank you."

"Anytime, Legolas."

When they hung up, he texted Nat. _Two days. Three tops._

The phone rang in his hand an instant later. When he answered, she replied. "I really needed to hear your voice."

For a moment he was afraid his voice might crack, but he swallowed it. "You're okay?"

"I'm okay. I almost got blown up and had to electrocute myself, but I'm okay." She gave a humorless laugh. "I'm definitely out of lives now, Clint."

"So, what do we do now?"

"I don't know. I don't think anyone knows. Steve woke up a couple hours ago, looks like he'll be okay. There's still a triage center in a park near where the Trisk was. Maybe by the time you're here I'll have a plan but for now I'm at 'continue not dying.'"

"I personally would greatly appreciate you not dying."

"It's a solid plan and has served me well so far."

Never before in his life had he so longed to reach through a telephone. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

"it's all right," she said softly. "Just get home soon and safe. We have a lot of time to make up for."

"I will," he said. "I promise."

*

_Undisclosed Location, Central Maryland._

The accommodations in Nick Fury's hidden dam were not exactly swank, but they were safe. Nat wasn't entirely sure it would be all right to go home yet. A few days hiding couldn't hurt. Though her "room" was kind of cold and dank, and made her hardware ache. 

Out in the hallway, she could hear Hill's voice getting closer. She sounded exasperated. "Will you just tell me how you got this number?. . . You are _not_ omniscient." She banged on Nat's door. "Hey. Phone call."

Moving slower than usual, she got up and opened the door, holding her hand out for the phone. Hill gave it to her with one of her more exasperated looks and strolled off.

Nat brought the receiver to her ear. "Romanov."

"Jesus. Where are you people, Mongolia?" It was Stark. "I had an easier time locating the bones of Jimmy Hoffa." 

"Pretty sure the location of Jimmy Hoffa's bones is now on the internet. What's up, Stark?"

He gave a put out sigh. "Pepper made me call you and see if you would like to take a completely pointless trip to Australia."

Blood roared in her ears a moment and she let out her breath in a rush. She was bound to be on a dozen watch lists right now. Steve was still healing. So was Fury. She was probably going to get arrested or at least subpoenaed soon. She was the closest thing to a face SHIELD had and someone was going to want to spit in it. All that loomed on the horizon. But for now. . . "Yes. That sounds like a wonderful idea."

"Hang on," he replied. She could hear him talking to someone in the background, only able to make out some mumbling about gloating, something about Banner, and something about people having sex on his plane. Then he was back. "Can you get to New York?"

She went over logistics in her head. There were cars at the dam. Nondescript, debadged black SUVs. If she avoided major roads until she was out of DC and was very, very lucky she could make it in a few hours. "If I don't get arrested on the way, yes."

"It'll get more attention if one of my planes comes to you, they are, you know, labeled." 

In the background she heard Pepper say, "Because you have to put your name on everything."

"Anyway," Stark was saying. "The plane's at Teterboro in New Jersey. Do not get off the plane when it lands. Australian customs think it's coming empty for a pick-up. The flight has been pre-cleared with customs for return through Los Angeles. US customs thinks it's coming back empty from a drop off. Someday governments are going to talk to each other, and then we're all fucked."

"I need to grab a bag. I can be on the road in half an hour or so."

"The plane will be waiting. You break it, you bought it." 

"Got it." She paused. "Thank you, Tony."

"Well, hey. What are friends for?" He paused. "Jarvis is processing the data dump. I know you guys kinda saved my life. And I know they killed my parents. So if I can be of any assistance in fucking them further, you just call."

"I will keep that in mind. Take care." They hung up and she ducked back in her room to throw a change of clothes and some toiletries into her bag. Then she went to find Hill to give her back the phone and requisition a car. 

"Where are you going, and did he tell you how he got this number?"

"I'm going to fly around on an empty plane for a day or two. And no, but it was apparently really hard."

Hill looked up at her. "You're going to fly around on an empty plane? You know there's shit to do, right?"

"It's only going to be empty for the first part. But don't tell the government that." She hiked the bag up on her shoulder. "I will do the shit when I get back. Right now, this is shit _I_ gotta do." And then, just in case the other woman still didn't get it, "At least I don't have to steal the plane this time."

Hill made a face. "Hang on." She reached over and ripped a piece of paper off the top of the legal pad beside her laptop. "Here." Nat looked at it, and found a list of names.

She skimmed them but didn't recognize any. "And these are?"

"The agents that died in the building collapse in New Mexico and during the hellicarrier flight who were Hydra. Tell him he can put those on his list of people that 'needed killing'."

Nat stared at the list a moment, then folded the paper and tucked it away in the bag. "Thank you. Car?"

"Take the one with Jersey plates."

She nodded her thanks and headed down to the garage. Once behind the wheel she checked her phone and started a timer on it counting down to when she'd see Clint again.

The drive to Jersey was blissfully boring. She saw a couple of state troopers on the road, but no one gave her a second glance. At the airport she kept her sunglasses on, dropped Stark's name shamelessly and was directed to the tarmac and his sleek jet. She wondered if this was the one with the stripper pole in it. Or maybe they all had one.

It was exceedingly nice inside, like all of his planes. That had been one perk of traveling around with him when she'd been under cover. SHIELD was nowhere near as nice.

Hadn't been as nice, she corrected herself. She supposed that wasn't going to be a problem anymore.

She took a seat and pulled out a book. It was going to be a very long flight. 

Eventually she napped. She woke up to a her phone beeping with a text from Clint. _Made it to Perth. Stark said the plane is in the air, so hopefully I'll see you when I land tomorrow, or whatever day it is back home._

She briefly considered telling him, but decided that in the last few days of awful a nice surprise was overdue. The look on his face would be worth it. _Keep me posted. I'm still underground but can meet you once you're stateside._

_I may hold my breath the whole flight._

Oh, the dirty jokes she was resisting. _The control for the stripper pole is label "Cat 5 interface."_

_Why do you know that? No, don't tell me. If I find out you pole danced for Stark we may have to revisit that 'unmarked grave in the Mojave' issue. And the guy's saving my ass right now._

_Nothing so tawdry. I was undercover with him for months. I know what the buttons on the planes do._

_I miss you so much._

They were probably going to have to revisit the Mojave grave thing and a lot of other stuff. She'd told him she loved him when she wasn't sure if she'd ever see him again. She was going to need to deal with that and talk about it. They were going to need to redraw those boundaries again and again until they made it work. But she was absolutely determined to make it work.

_I miss you, too. I'm going to start making a list of all the things I want to do with you when we're together again. I might be done by the time you get here._

It was dark when the plane finally touched down at the Perth Airport. She had the cabin lights down so she could see out, and watched him walk across the tarmac towards the plane. He was nearly unrecognizable—shaggy hair and a beard and an impressive suntan. Dusty khaki clothes and a cowboy hat.

She'd taken the time to change and freshen up, as well as change the bandage on her shoulder. Now she wondered if they were going to end up trying to negotiate the little shower stall in the back bedroom. They'd worked with less.

Oddly nervous, she fidgeted the skirt she wore a few times, waiting. The flight attendant called a greeting to him and she heard the heavy clump of his boots on the stairs.

"If you have any kind of alcohol," she heard him start as he appeared at the head of the aisle, "I would really. . ." He trailed off, and he dropped his bag with a thump. "Natasha?"

"It's Stark's plane," she said, voice tight. "You think there's not alcohol?" Then she lost the ability to be cool and nonchalant and launched herself at him.

"Why—How—?" He started, and then seemed to give up the questions to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her neck. She hung onto him with all she had. He was shaggy and dusty and smelled kind of like sweat, but he was alive and they were together and that was really all that mattered in the world.

After a moment, she leaned back, caught his face in her hands and kissed him. He returned it with the same urgency and desperation she felt, and they kissed until the flight attendant cleared her throat. They had to take off. Not sure she could speak, she pulled him down the aisle, to where there was a couch instead of individual seats, so she did not have to let him go.

The attendants moved around quietly, getting the plane ready to depart. Nat nuzzled her face into Clint's shoulder. "It was Pepper's idea. Stark called me and I met the plane in Jersey. I wanted to surprise you."

"Surprise me you did." He lifted his head to look at her. "Thank you."

She smiled. "I thought a little privacy would do us both some good."

"I expected to be able to shower and shave before I saw you again. I'm sorry I look like a hobo."

"It's been two months and a couple of hellish days. I can honestly say, you've never looked better to me." She followed that up with another kiss. She was never, ever going to take kissing him for granted again. 

"Stark said this thing had a shower?"

She gestured to the door at the back of the plane. "And a bedroom. They prefer we sit here for take off, but once we're up we can go explore."

He leaned back, and took her with him. "That sounds wonderful."

The stewardess closed the cabin door and moved up to the cockpit. Nat curled against Clint's chest and listened to him breathe as the engines geared up and they began getting in place to taxi.

Perth wasn't as busy as some airports, but there were a couple flights leaving and they had to wait a couple minutes. Then they accelerated and she tightened her arms on him. She always had a faint, fleeting moment of panic on take off. "I gotcha," he whispered into her hair. 

She kissed his chest and kind of regretted it because his shirt was kind of foul. They leveled out and gained altitude and she finally shifted back. "Shower?"

"That bad, eh?" He stood up. "Could you dig in my bag for clean clothes?" 

"As you wish," she said, retrieving the duffel from the cubby the attendant had stashed it in. It took quite a bit of digging, but she came out with a full clean outfit and took it back, following him through the door to the bedroom suite. He opened the door to the glass, circular shower and turned the water on before stripping his clothes off. His back was as tanned as his arms.

Picturing him wandering around the Australian bush naked was going to be her new favorite happy thought. She put his clothes on the bathroom counter. "You want company or should I start warming the bed up for you?"

"This is barely a one person shower." He turned and grinned at her. "And I'm kind of filthy."

"I had noticed." She leaned in to kiss him lightly. "I will be waiting in the bed when you're done. Would you like a vote on what or how much I'll be wearing?"

He made a sound that was half sigh, half groan. "I vote nothing." He looked up. "Do you think there are cameras?"

"No, I don't think Stark wants a record of what he does in here."

He made a face. "You had to mention that." He paused. "Did you fail to notice he had six cameras in his living room at the tower?"

"If it makes you feel better, I'll do a sweep." She waved her hands at him. "Get clean before I start without you. I've got plenty of practice," she added, tugging her shirt over her head as she started a circuit of the room, looking for cameras. She didn't see any, and kept one eye on him in the shower. The glass doors were very transparent.

Satisfied the room was clean, she tugged the sheets down on the bed and shed her bra and skirt. The bed had a rather nice view of said shower, so she stretched out on it, nude, and watched shamelessly as soap suds outlined every muscle and curve Clint had.

He probably ran down all the hot water before he got out and wrapped a towel around his waist. "You want me to shave?" he called to her.

She tucked her hand behind her head. "If you could," she replied. "I'm not a fan of beard burn."

Apparently Stark kept the plane well stocked, because a moment later he was lathering his jaw. "After a while it was easier to just let it go," he told her.

"I find it sexy to look at," she offered. Watching him shave was oddly sexy as well. Though, admittedly, after this long apart watching him read would probably wind her up. She'd been teasing about starting without him, but found herself idly stroking her breast, watching him wield the razor like an artist. 

"Every time I see one of these things, they have more blades." He whacked it on the sink a couple of times. She knew he had a straight razor at home. Hell, it was probably out in his bag. She'd seen it on occasional mornings over the years, and it was very him, to insert something sharp and dangerous into a mundane activity. It took a steadiness of hand most people didn't have. Now he was using whatever disposables were stocked in the bathroom, she assumed. Whatever it was, he didn't seem too compelled to pay attention to it, as he was watching her in the mirror.

Well, he'd given her quite a show in the shower. Seemed only fair to return the favor. She was fairly sure the plane could do a barrel roll and he wouldn't nick himself with a safety razor. So she untucked her other hand from behind her head and flattened it on her stomach. She pinched her nipple between her thumb and forefinger and tugged, making the other one tighten in response. 

Her fingers brushed the wet tangle of curls that covered her sex and she teased herself a moment with light little brushes before spreading her legs and sinking her fingers between her folds. A moment later she heard the razor clank in the sink, and she looked up to too him wiping his face with a towel. He hadn't moved from the sink, obviously enjoying her tease.

She held his gaze, catching her lower lip in her teeth. Her clit was swollen and sensitive and she couldn't help bucking her hips a little at the first brush of her finger. She kept stroking, feather light, and her hand grew rougher on her breasts, adding twinges of almost-pain to the pleasure growing in her belly.

Finally he came toward her, his eyes dark. He leaned over her, bracing his hands on the bed. "Looks like you do all right without me."

She couldn't look away from him, even as she began to stroke herself harder, firmer. "It's you I think about, though," she told him. Her voice was hoarse with emotion. "Your fingers I feel." The intensity of his gaze was adding to her pleasure, heating and tightening her skin. "Clint," she whispered. "I'm so close. Do you want to watch?"

He slid his hand over hers, following the curve of her fingers. "Let me feel."

Her breath stuttered in her chest but she kept her fingers moving, now with light brushes of his callused ones adding to the sensation. She wanted to close her eyes, throw her head back and let go, but she didn't. She let him see every gasp and shudder. The way her eyes glazed and her skin flushed. Her strokes grew harder, then rough, then she was coming, hips lifting into their hands, She reached down and pressed his hand against her firmly, so her could feel every pulse and twitch that ran through her.

Finally, slowly, he leaned down to kiss her. "I missed you so," he whispered.

Tears pricked the backs of her eyes and she blinked them away. "I missed you. I thought of you every day."

He grinned at her, and then stretched out next to her. "I know. You texted me."

She looked at him, wide eyed. "Who knew I was so clingy?"

He toucher her bandage. "Are you okay to. . ."

"I know I tend to blow injuries off, but this one really was just a flesh wound. Didn't even need narcotics." She reached over and slid her wet fingers around his cock. "If I don't have you inside me soon I'm going to explode."

He groaned. " _You_ are going to explode?" He gave her a little tug and rolled onto his back. "Come here."

She obeyed, swinging her leg over his lean hips and straddling him. She shifted up onto her knees and let his erection slide against her, teasing her over sensitive clit at the end of her strokes, coating him with her moisture. "I don't want to be apart this long again," she whispered, for once putting to words what she'd normally say with her body.

"Never," he whispered back. He bracketed her hips with his hands and pulled her down until he filled her. For a moment he held her there, not moving, just the two of them connected. "I promise."

She looked down at him, rocking her hips slightly, just enough to keep them both on edge. Those dusty old strings twanged inside her. Though they weren't dusty anymore and the notes they played were quite easy to hear. She loved him. She hadn't thought herself capable of it, but apparently she was. It might not be how other women loved; there was a rough, untamed fierceness to it. Like a feral cat who loved the one who fed it. It was love, though, slow kindled and hard won, and she had no intention of letting it go.

Her hands were pale against his bronzed chest. Small and delicate. She bent close to kiss him, rough and desperate. "What do you want?" she whispered. "Hard and rough or slow and teasing?"

He made a strangled sound. "God, honey, anything. Just you."

She smiled and gave him another kiss before straightening, sitting on his hips. It took a moment to get the rhythm, get all her muscles moving in concert, but soon she was riding him in long, smooth strokes that took him to the hilt each time. She waited until his eyes were open and she was sure he was watching her, then she let her hands wander. Running through her hair, cupping and shaping her breasts. Biting her lip she let one wander down to where they met, reveling in the spark she saw in his eyes. He followed the path of her hands with his own, like he was learning her again. "Tasha," he growled, letting need and impatience into his tone.

Catching his wrist, she pressed his hand to her mound, fingertips on her clit. He stroked her immediately, though he was so far gone there wasn't much art to it. It was enough, though, just that little extra sensation, the scrape of his rough hand where she was most sensitive.

She let go, eyes closed, head thrown back. She moved roughly, at the pace and speed she needed. Her orgasm started slow, ripples spreading out from his fingers and where he was buried inside her. She gasped his name, whimpered, moaned. Then she was lost in it, body clenching and releasing around him, blood rushing in her ears. She rocked on him, slow, languid movements, drawing out the pleasure, wringing out every last drop of it.

She was so consumed by it she didn't entirely notice his, but she heard his content sigh as she crumpled onto his chest. His arms came around her, and he kissed her hair. "Tasha, I. . ." he started, and then he seemed to catch him self, and trailed off. He brought a hand up to rub her back instead.

There was no doubt in her mind what he'd been about to say. When she'd typed that last text before the siege on the Triskelion she'd been fairly sure she was going to die. There were too many things that could go wrong and they hadn't really known the size of the enemy. She'd told him she loved him because she thought it was the last chance she'd have to do so. When she'd happened to live she'd been a little irritated what was supposed to be a big, emotional moment had been done via text message thousands of miles apart. She'd wanted a damn do over.

Well, no time like the present.

She lifted her head so she could see his face and said, "I love you."

He watched her for a moment. "I thought you wanted me to disregard that."

"I did. Do. Because _this_ is how I wanted to say it to you. When we were happy and tangled up together." She brushed her lips against his in the lightest of kisses. "I wanted to say it because I was so full of it it was the only thing I could say. Not because I was afraid it was my only chance."

"I love you. I think you know that. Possibly for most of the, oh, five or six years it's been true." He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I am patient, and I may appear bulletproof. But you don't nearly die and then strand a man out in the desert with a 'never mind'."

"I'm sorry," she said softly, sincerely. Her heart broke a little at what she'd put him through. "I have no excuse. And I'm very sorry I took so long. I'd be happy to tell you every day now. More than once. Apparently, I'm pretty clingy."

"Come here," he whispered, and pulled her against his chest. "I forgive you. You've had a really horrible couple of days."

"That's true." She nuzzled him, taking a moment to enjoy the feel of his skin against hers and the way he held her so tightly. It made everything else melt away.

"I have no idea how to note this on my sex map," she murmured finally.

Clint yawned. "If you look out the window and see land, we're still over Australia. I believe we're taking the eastern route home."

"The window's far away. Maybe I'll just color in the ocean."

He rubbed her back again. "I can live with that." He was quiet a long moment. "So, everything's really gone?"

She shifted off of him, stretching out next to him on the bed. "Yes. The Trisk is obviously toast. Coulson and Hand have the Hub. The Fridge is in lockdown. No one's heard anything from the Academy. People are calling SHIELD a terrorist organization. Hill's working on damage control and I told her I'd help when we got back. But. . . yeah. It's gone."

"And you and I are said terrorist organization's hit men. And it's all on the internet."

"It was all or nothing. And some secrets needed to be told."

"I know," he said quietly. "And I know it's worse for you. My body count would probably stand up to moral judgement if not a legal one—minus whatever turned out to be Hydra's doing. I know yours is messier. So I won't complain. But people may be coming for us."

Before Stark had called about the plane she'd been spending most of her time trying to figure out who would be first to come after her. Most were people as bad as her and easily stopped. Some weren't. "Oh, that reminds me. Hill gave me a list of Hydra agents from New Mexico. Said you could add them to your 'worthy of death' list."

She could feel him smile. "That's good to know."

"Hill's working underground, trying to find parachutes for the agents who survived she knows are innocent. Somehow I ended up being the face, I guess I got on too many camera phones. I expect an invitation to a senate hearing soon. I may be made an example of, I may not." She glanced around the plane. "We do have some powerful friends."

"We could go to ground." 

The idea had merit, though she'd never been much for running away. And she was pretty sure Hydra wasn't as weakened as they might hope. The world would need people like her and Clint even more. "Maybe for a while," she conceded. "I am not going into the outback with you."

"I'm just not looking forward to having to break you out of SuperMax if they decide to make an example of you."

"I'd just need you to make a hole in the outer wall. I should be able to handle the rest from the inside."

"We could go somewhere with a nice beach."

"I like beaches," she said thoughtfully. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder and nuzzled him. "The dam hideout we've been in is damp but secure. We can help Hill for a couple days and make a plan."

His voice caught when he spoke. "I can't lose you. Not now."

Nat lifted her head a little to look at him, then wrapped her arms around him. "You won't. We'll play it smart. No one's going to do anything right away, there's too much press, too much hype. we'll take it one day at a time and figure it out. We always do."

He leaned up enough to kiss her gently. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispered. She resettled, head on his shoulder. "We'll be all right."

He tucked the blankets up around them, and yawned again. "Sleep?"

Sleep had eluded her the last couple of nights. She was sure it was the same for him. "Yes. Sleep."


	13. Chapter 13

The dam that was serving as a combination of safe house and Fury's rehab facility wasn't as bad as Nat had described it to him—though it had very apparently been given some upgrades since she'd left. For example, the common area where people tended to loiter had mysteriously acquired Nat's massive leather couch.

She seemed a little annoyed, but Clint was happy there was somewhere comfortable to sit. Fury was a big fan of the recliner.

Hill spent half her time on the phone with Stark, feeding things in and out of his datacenters as they processed the SHIELD information dump. Sheet after sheet of yellow legal paper filled with names were taped to one of the walls as they sorted SHIELD from Hydra, one agent at a time.

Clint occasionally stood there and perused the list. "I really want to just go and start picking them off."

"Pretty sure I'm supposed to discourage that," Hill said, eyes glued to her computer screen.

"Well. We are all free agents. Though without government backing it's probably just straight murder."

"I imagine that's the argument the lawyers would use." She looked up at him then. "If they caught you."

"Stop inciting Clint to violence," Nat said, wandering through the tech room. "You know how he gets when he's bored."

Hill looked up at Nat. "There you are. The news is reporting you've been subpoenaed, but they can't find you."

"We knew it was coming," she said, sounding far more casual than he imagined she felt. "Think how surprised they'll be when I show up."

"You don't have to," Clint said.

Nat looked over at him. "Yes. I think I do."

"We can just. . . go. Somewhere with better weather and no extradition treaty."

"I'm not just going to run."

"If you're going to have a serious relationship discussion can you do it elsewhere?" Hill asked. "I've got shit to do."

"Leaving has the advantage of less grumpy roommates," Clint commented.

"If you want to move out of the dam I'm fine with that." Nat headed towards the common room. "But I'm staying close and going to the hearing."

He followed after her, likely much to Hill's relief. "Why?"

"A lot of reasons. Mostly because we didn't do anything wrong and hiding will make everyone think we did." She turned to face him. "Yes, Hydra was in SHIELD and maybe we did a lot of things for the wrong reason. But I believe - I _have_ to believe - that we did a lot of good, too. And we can still do good. And if I don't stand up and tell people that who will?"

"I don't know. Hill? Stark?"

"Hill can't be the face of the good guys. She needs to be anonymous so she can help the other people who've been screwed by this. And maybe you remember the last time Stark went in front of a hearing committee."

He sighed, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. "I worry about you."

"I know," she said softly. "And maybe I'm reading this wrong, but I don't think I am. They want me in there because they think I'll play the victim. That I'll let them paint me as the bad guy and they can go home and pat themselves on the back. But I'm not going to. I'm going to stand up. I'm going to get the whole world on my side, so they'd be crazy to lay a finger on me for fear of creating a martyr." She stepped forward and wound her arms around his neck. "I'm going to catch the whole country in my web."

He bent his head to inhale her scent. He loved that they could be this casual in what currently amounted to 'public'. Certainly before they never would have touched each other in front of Fury or Hill or the other SHIELD refugees that had been collecting inside the dam. They'd contemplated caution, but the first morning after they returned from Australia, waiting for a turn in the single, very hastily erected makeshift bathroom Nat had encountered a very testy Hill, who'd briskly invited her to contemplate the acoustic properties of concrete. "You're sure this is what you want?"

"It is," she said firmly. "Maybe I've been hanging out with Steve too long, but I think this is the right thing to do." She pulled back to look at him. "I'm tired of hiding who I am under layers of who I'm not."

"What if they arrest you?"

"Stark has excellent lawyers."

Part of him still wanted to steal her away. But she'd always wrestled with her identity, and her past. If she needed to do this, then it needed to be done. "All right."

She cupped his face and kissed him. "Thank you."

From the other room, Hill called, "If you guys are done fighting. . . I need help picking out a tombstone."

A week later, Nat had her hearing scheduled. They'd spent the days before putting together their plans for what came next, for where they'd go. She had some old friends dig up paperwork on Barnes from the old Soviet archives. Having a name, and a starting date that went back decades before the origins of the Winter Soldier legend helped her locate information they'd never been able to find before. It helped to know what you were looking for.

He sat on the end of their bed—an air mattress he'd gone to buy after they'd fully outed themselves, because the camp cots were not double occupancy—watching Nat get ready. She fastened the arrow necklace on and he smiled. "Fury really wants us to come to Europe to go hunting with him."

She glanced over at him, running a brush through her hair. "Do you want to?"

"I don't think you're going to be in the best position for covert ops after today."

"Probably not. But then, I always did stand out." She grinned and put her brush down, walking over to kiss his head. "I was thinking settling somewhere. Fancy loft in New York maybe. Play at being domestic."

"You'd be bored out of your skull."

"Mmm, we could become vigilantes. Like the A Team. She's a former Russian assassin with a shadowy past. He's an expert marksman with a weapon from the Paleolithic era. Together, they fight crime. They are _Clintasha_."

"My bow is not paleolithic. Recurves are newer than civilization, and compounds are newer than Steve." He made a face. "And we do not need a celebrity couple nickname."

"I thought it was clever." She kissed him again. "I have to go to my hearing. Are you gonna watch me on TV?"

"Wouldn't miss it. You know how I love C-SPAN. Afterwards, I told Fury I'd drive him to torch his storage container and visit his headstone before he left."

"We live exciting lives, Clint. I'll tag along, assuming I'm not arrested."

He gave her hand a tug, pulling her into his lap and not caring if he wrinkled her suit. "Be careful."

She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him again. "I will be extremely careful. And I will see you later at the graveyard."

"Go, then. Knock 'em dead."

"Thanks, honey." After one last squeeze she stood and sauntered out of their room. 

Four hours later, he sat behind the wheel of one of the SUV's, watching Nat say goodbye to Steve, and perhaps give him some sort of pep talk about chasing his ghosts. He knew she thought it was a bad idea, but he couldn't blame Steve. Some people were worth searching to the ends of the earth for.

She went up on her toes to kiss Steve's cheek and sauntered away, turning back a moment to answer something he'd asked. She had a big smile on her face as she walked back to the SUV.

He smiled at her when she climbed into the car. "Hey."

She leaned over to kiss his cheek in greeting. "He's off on his goose chase. But I think Sam's going with him, so he'll be all right. Fury's off to wander the earth as well."

"So. . . where do we go now?"

"I'm still up for my vigilante idea."

"There's also that beach thing."

"Do you think there's beaches that need vigilantes?" she asked brightly.

"Probably not." He glanced over at her. "There is the other thing."

Her brow went up. "You seemed skeptical of the other thing."

"I know. But you were pretty convincing on TV."

Nat laughed and lifted a shoulder. "We've had worse gigs. And the benefits package is generous."

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "So. . .95 north?"

She bent and tugged her boots off, then leaned back to put her feet on the dash. "I'll buy the fried chicken."

That made him grin. "Well. One stop we need to make first."

*

The sun was setting, and the city lights coming on, when Clint drove their appropriated former SHEILD Suburban through the Lincoln Tunnel. It was darker when they emerged into the slow-moving rush hour traffic. 

"He did say they were furnished, you know," she commented.

"I know," Clint replied. "But I've seen his places. He likes modern furniture." He honked and cursed at a taxi driver that apparently cut him off. "Did he say anything about parking?"

"There's a garage underneath the building. Entrance is on the north side and he claims the entrance code is my measurements." Clint gave her a look. "I'm sure he can do it by sight. We'll see how accurate it is."

"I was okay with kissing Steve. Getting felt up by Stark is where I draw the line."

"He never laid a hand on me," she informed him primly.

They pulled up to the garage entrance, and Clint reached out the window and punched in numbers without asking her. He turned and grinned at her when the gate went up.

"I'm feeling very objectified right now," she muttered as he drove into the parking garage. The level they were on was about 2/3rds full and Clint was able to find a spot a stone's throw from the elevator.

She looked over at him as he turned the engine off. "Ready?"

"As ever." He glanced into the back of the Suburban, which was stuffed to the gills with the pieces of her big leather couch. "We might need to come back down for that later."

"Yeah. Maybe with some help." She'd drafted three agents into wrestling it out of the dam. She still had no idea how they'd gotten it out of her building in the first place.

They climbed out of the car and headed to the elevator. She knew the code for the penthouse, so she punched it in and the lift started moving smoothly upwards.

"Feels like going back in time," Clint commented.

She glanced upwards instinctively. "Been a hell of a couple of years. Probably going to keep being interesting."

He laughed as the elevator doors slid open. "I sure as hell hope so." He put a hand on the small of her back as they stepped out onto the marble floor of Stark's pent house.  
 The man himself was behind the bar. He grinned his best shit eating grin when he saw them. "Barton, Romanov." He set three glasses on the bar and poured what looked like bourbon into them. He capped the snifter with a flourish and added, "Welcome to the Avengers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done. Thank you to all our wonderful readers and commenters. You make this so much fun.
> 
> There is a sequel! It is written and ready to go. First chapter will go up next week, gods willing and the creek don't rise.
> 
> See you then!


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